


Spun with the Flax of Sorrow

by TheLucindaC



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bathing/Washing, Blood and Injury, Car Accidents, Everybody Lives, Fix-It, Flashbacks, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Injury Recovery, M/M, Magical Accidents, Magical Bond, Major Character Injury, Mild Sexual Content, Mind Meld, Post-Season/Series 04, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season/Series 05 Spoilers, Sensuality, Showers, Teleportation, Touch-Starved, Triggers, basically everything I write is fix-it at this point, canon's our sandbox now, if we didn't laugh we would cry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:22:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 47,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24883786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLucindaC/pseuds/TheLucindaC
Summary: He propels the idea out of a cannon. Buries it in the backwoods. Battens down the hatches. But the thought forms all the same.What if… the axes didn’t work all the way? Maybe a part of The Monster… is still inside him. And it’d found his Happy Place, and was trying to get out.Well. Shit.He wants to smile. He wants to laugh. A full body, Coo Coo for Cocoa Puffs cackle. Because otherwise, he’s going to start screaming again. Loud enough to shatter all the glass around them.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater & The Monster & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 44
Kudos: 67





	1. Quentin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [peacefrog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peacefrog/gifts).



> This was written for the astoundingly talented Holly, as a part of the first NotAloneHere auction! She and I had a discussion, ages ago, about how 5x06 really didn't address Eliot's Monster trauma (and how it's inherently related to his trauma of losing Quentin), so this is my way of fixing that.
> 
> It takes 5x02 as a loose jumping off point, along with borrowing one or two things from 5x05 and 5x06. After Eliot visits Jane Chatwin and hears about what happened in Timeline 1 -- as well as her "take" on resurrecting the dead and rewriting time -- that's the straw that breaks the camel's back. El and Margo resurrect Q (and you, dear reader, are welcome to imagine how), and our story begins about half a year after that. The tags, chapter count, and other things may change as I'm writing it. At this point, though, posting at least SOMETHING is long overdue, and peacefrog has been nothing but a patient saint as I've worked on this. Hopefully, this gives all of us, and Eliot and Q most of all, some closure. 
> 
> (Title comes from a quote by Kaworu Nagisa, from Neon Genesis Evangelion. He and the Monster share a few parallels, and I'm slight anime trash, let's move on.)

Something’s digging into his ribs. And his temple. He must’ve…

Must’ve…

Fallen. Asleep. On the stairs. Right. The Cottage stairs feel like this. Unrelenting. Solid. That’s why there’s a bad crick in his neck. And there’s this…

This.

Drained ache. In his legs. And his arms. He can barely feel them. That black hole. Took so much out of him. And he’d been talking with Margo – not surface-level stuff, not nerd stuff, but really talking – about magic. And she’d murmured, “It’s the universe deep-dicking us. Lie back and try and enjoy it.” And then she must’ve just left him here. There’s this sticky, warm feeling on his cheek…? Someone probably spilled their daiquiri. And he’d been too tired to care where to put his head. That hanging-upside-down feeling washes over him. Maybe he’s drunk.

Glass breaks. Somewhere close. Maybe Todd dropped something. And Margo’s off to kill him.

“Q.”

Eliot.

Soulmate.

Shh, sh, shhhhh. Nooooooo, that’s too melodramatic. What. Come on.

( _But still._ )

( _Soulmate._ )

He really wants Eliot to lay down with him. Spoon him. Doesn’t matter if it’s the stairs. Doesn’t matter if it’s Day Two Thousand, Two Hundred and Forty-Three, and Teddy’s dumped jam from brunch on the stone border _again_. Already on Tantrum Number Three, today. Maybe that’s what’s under his cheek. Maybe he slipped. Knocked himself out for a bit. Or stayed up too late on a pattern last night. Anyway. He just wants their quilt over him and Eliot all around him and–

“Q?” Eliot croaks.

Come cuddle, El. It’s chilly.

“Q!”

Wait. Mosaic? Cottage? Which one is it?

If he moves his arm, just an inch, he’ll be able to tell. Textures’ll tell him a lot. One scrape and he’ll know. So he moves. Pins and needles race through his muscles. Ow. It’s not polished wood. And it’s not a stone, chalky slab either. It’s metal. And plastic. As he swallows, a thick strap presses on his throat. His old shoulder bag? Did he fall asleep with it?

Eliot coughs. Metal groans. Eliot’s groaning too. He’s crying. No. El can’t cry. He can’t.

( _He’ll fix it. Whatever it is_.)

( _It’s what he’s there for_.)

Quentin swallows against the strap again. If he can move an arm, he can open his eyes. He can. He just has to think about it. His pupils slide around beneath ruddy eyelids. Not a lot of light here, huh? And some grit’s in his tear ducts? He wants to rub them, but his other arm’s not moving. Not moving at all. That warm sticky pool on his cheek’s spreading. It’s in his hair now. His head’s too heavy.

Eliot’s really crying now. He’s swearing too; all of his favorites. But he’s almost screaming them. It’s awful. Another piece of glass breaks. He takes a deep breath through his nose. Ow. Ow ow. Sensation shrieks through his chest. He tries shifting. His lower back slides against leather.

“Q, baby, wake up. Please, baby, please please please. Come on. Wake up. Wake the fuck up! Shit. Shit. Quentin! QUENTIN!”

He opens his eyes. Everything swims. His head’s splitting open, his ears ringing like he’s been standing under an eleven o’clock church bell. A streetlamp’s glowing. Slashes of light fall across his–

Hanging thighs.

Huh. He is upside down. Almost curiously, he rotates his ankle.

Not broken. But the joints crack.

“Oh thank _fucking_ Christ. Baby? Baby–”

Quentin turns his head. That damn crick in his neck absolutely hates him for it. He can’t see Eliot’s face in the hazy darkness. The light’s slanting in on his side of the CR-V. But he can at least see Eliot’s long, staggered shadow. It’s mottled by the deflated corpse of a white airbag.

Right. They’d been driving. A weeklong getaway. Cape Cod. Got up at the asscrack of midnight to cross through a few states, just to try and beat some of the guaranteed summer traffic. He’d planned to get to the rental house, dump their bags, change, and run off to the beach so they could watch the sunrise. Though… he would’ve probably just… napped the second… they… laid their… towels–

“–gotta focus on my– You gotta stay awake. I’m– I can’t. I’m trying but I– Q! STAY WITH ME, BABY.”

Eliot’s hurt.

Eliot’s really hurt.

He jolts his eyes back open. His heart’s starting to get the memo. Thundering against his sternum. Like he’ll forget it’s there, unless it keeps reminding him. They’ve gotta get out of this. He’s bleeding. Eliot’s trapped. Anything and everything could be broken.

He does have some feeling in one arm. The left one. It’s pinned to the door near his face. None of his fingers are broken. Okay. Okay. One thing at a time. Step by step. If Eliot can’t, then he’ll have to– He can cast one-handed. He can.

Popper 13. Popper 52-but-backwards. McCabe’s… um… whatever. Twist, bend, done. The seatbelt cuts. It’s such a short fall down to the roof, but he screams when he lands. Eliot cries his name, straining hard but still immobilized. Quentin’s right arm bends the wrong way, not enough to snap it, but the dislocation pops even further out of place. All thanks to the steering wheel. The streetlight glares right into his eyes. Pieces of the windshield spike into his bloody face.

“I’m. Coming. El,” he rasps out.

“T-t-take it – gah ha ha – take it slow,” Eliot whimpers.

The CR-V’s too old, he thinks. No OnStar. Phone’s missing.

“’M coming,” he says. “Hold on. Getting. You out.”

Deep, sharp pangs pound through his legs. Must be some bruised bones. But he can move them. That’s all that matters. Blood runs into his eye, stinging and hot, and he wipes it off on his sleeve while he concentrates. Two more tuts, and he’s got a little star of light hanging in the air, so he can see.

Nausea crawls up his windpipe, and he tastes bile, gagging from the pain, his eyes too sensitive. Concussion? Concussion. He squints, trying to focus. Upside down, Eliot’s lips are stained dark with blood. His right forearm’s torn open to the bone, and it’s dripping too. The door of the car is practically punched right into his side. It’s folded around his legs, which are… he can’t even look. Eliot’s eyes are squeezed shut as he wheezes through clenched teeth. Quentin sees the tears and snot running down his forehead, dripping into his wispy hair, and that’s all he can stand.

He’s mended. A goddamn portal. To the goddamn Seam. With only one goddamn tut. So he can fucking do this.

But the magic merely trickles out of him. He hunches over, curling in on his side, as only a handful of metal smooths out near Eliot’s hip. Black amoebas explode in his vision. He’s seconds from going under again.

“STAY AWAKE, BABY. PLEASE. PLEASE, BABY.”

Everything is tinted purple and black. Like the cones on his retinas can only register… UV, or something. But Quentin can piece together enough shades and outlines to direct another mending spell. A proper one. The plastic almost thanks him, humming and singing as it uncurls with a jolting, harsh thump. Cracks on the outside of the car seal back up like scattered applause. His vision clears. Eliot sucks in a chest full of air. When he coughs again, bloody spit sprays over the dashboard and soaks into the airbag.

Crawling across the roof, glass tearing his sleeves to shreds, Quentin braces himself on one hand. All the battle magic he knows takes two.

Directing a few kicks behind him, he breaks the window wide open. It’s the only way they’ll be able to get out. The door’s stuck.

His hand starts shaking with Popper 45 and Ali 7 and Popper 17, but he feels the spell take. Then he manages the same magic as before, slicing through Eliot’s seatbelt. When he slips free, it’s like gravity got lazy, and he floats down at a snail’s pace. Quentin has enough time to turn himself around and lie flat on his back. He settles Eliot atop his filthy jeans, instead of the merciless roof. Eliot’s blood soaks into the denim.

He says something. It comes through like gibberish. A litany of words, between wet, unsettling coughs. Quentin manages to shush him as strongly as he can.

He can’t talk. Can’t bother. Needs to concentrate. One shove at a time, with his good arm, he tries heaving them both backwards, like a lifeguard towards the shore. God, this fucking hurts. His spine’s getting stabbed and sliced up with each lurch.

Numbly, as he passes beneath the wide window frame, he thinks of the underside of his bed.

He used to hide things there all the time, when he had to clean his room. It was overwhelming, trying to find the “right” place for things, only for his mom to come in, and tell him he’d done it all wrong, and re-arrange everything anyway. So under the bed it went. Getting stuff back out again always sucked. All that crawling on his belly, ducking under the box-spring. Scooting his hand nervously around the dust bunnies. Dirtying his sleeves.

In between growth spurts, he discovered he was too big to keep it up. Then he just changed his approach, getting on his back, worming under that way, like his dad under the family car. Reaching up for the toys, with his head craning backwards, and discovering the world was suddenly on a whole new axis. Fun. Easier. Just had to tuck in his stomach.

The reminder is almost too much of a distraction, but it centers him too. Muscle memory.

Shove. Wriggle hips. Prop up, with a few inches of elbow. And shove again.

The little star doesn’t follow him out into the night air. Now it’s just the streetlamp, blazing, acres above his head. Dots of shadows. Mosquitos, drawn to the light. Everything’s flickering. The Honda had flipped over on a grassy, slanting bank, thank God. But the headlights are dead.

Eliot’s talking again. He can’t understand anything. His ears are ringing, much worse than before. Quentin doesn’t have the energy to reply anyway. Other little details are more important. Nothing’s on fire. He has Eliot’s chest under his bad arm, and he can feel his heartbeat through his vest, and the lopsided rise and fall of his chest. And his wheezing.

They’re almost out.

Shove. Wriggle hips.

They’re clear. He starts dragging them up the hill, but his magic runs dry. All of Eliot’s weight presses on his diaphragm instantly, knocking the wind out of him. Instinct takes over, and he pries himself out from under his body, choking on air, escaping. Blackness is swallowing him again. Everywhere. Everything. He rips up chunks of grass, digging into the earth, to make sure he doesn’t slide down the dew-soaked hillside back into the car.

He’s getting really, really cold. His hands. His legs. Where... are they. They’re tingling all over. Pins and needles. Can’t El get their quilt? He just… just needs to close his eyes. Blood dribbles down his cheek again. There’s a breeze stirring the far off treetops.

“Q.”

Yep. That’s him. Good job, El.

“Q, you c–” A choked, gurgling hack of lungs. “–can’t pass out!”

Eliot’s… not wrong. A line’s been drawn in the universe. A command’s in place. It won’t _let_ him pass out. Eliot’s big, spasming hand grabs onto his arm. Squeezing. He... feels that.

“Call. Gotta call…” Eliot says.

Quentin remembers. Remembers why.

 _No_ , he wants to tell him. _We can’t call. We can’t._

Somehow, a phone appears in the space between Eliot’s palm and Quentin’s shirt sleeve. No other explanation. It just… exists now, there, where it didn’t before. The screen’s icy through the fabric of his shirt.

_(No. Can’t call. Can’t risk anyone else.)_

He blinks his eyes open. Twists his body, ripping the phone away with his good arm, in case Eliot’s about to do anything with it.

Because.

Because.

The car crashed because… of him.

Quentin’s normally a teeth-grindingly good driver. He’s the DMV’s bitch. Everyone hates him for it. He’d only been driving ‘cause Eliot hasn’t been sleeping. For almost a week. The trip was supposed to be the big reset button. No portals. No Penny-23. Just the soothing lull of the road. Just a week at the beach.

Something was keeping Eliot awake. And Quentin’d decided to very not-so-subtly figure out what. By taking the both of them away from everything. From all the things that made Eliot feel like he needed to keep his mask up. From all the things that made him go, “I’m fine! Never been better!”

They’d almost made it, too. The GPS said they were half an hour away. That briny smell, from those Atlantic shoreline marshes, where the ocean flowed inland. It’d filled the air....

And every second of what’d happened after _is_ Quentin’s fault, isn’t it? He’d asked El to get him a bottled Starbucks from the cooler. _So basic_ , El quipped. And then Quentin saw it. That flash, as Eliot floated the bottle over to twist the cap off. And in his panic, his foot kicked. Pressed the gas pedal. Straight to the floor. They’d hit the metal barrier on the shoulder. Then went over.

And that drowning panic is seizing control of him again now. It’s too familiar, this feeling. He knows the _detachment_ comes next. That same, carefully crafted resignation. Surrender. It’s been almost six months. He’s not supposed to feel this way. He wasn’t supposed to feel this way ever again. But his brain just flips the switch, easily. It’s programmed in. His nerves are still hardwired for it. And most of his thoughts just shut down. Survival only, now.

Survive.

And protect his body.

“Just gonna get you something,” he murmurs, and he starts crawling away.

“Don’t go,” El whispers.

And Quentin can’t move.

His heart almost stops. Maybe… maybe Eliot doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

He doesn’t doubt it’s El in there. Until he does.

It’s just. _Just_ how it used to be. It used to be _exactly_ like this. The utter powerlessness.

“Please,” he soothes, like it’s not Eliot. Even though it is. He _knows_ it is. “Be right back, okay? Gonna get something to help. To fix you up.”

There’s a kit in the trunk. Magicians First Aid. Julia’d tossed it in, last minute.

Honestly, that’s all he’s going for. Please. Please let him go. He won’t do anything else. He promises. It’s his fault. All of it. Let him fix it. “Be right back. Just gonna be a second.”

The power evaporates. He can move again.

As he starts to leave, he placates, “You stay awake too. Eyes open, hear me? Keep breathing.”

Eliot says, “’S long as you do.” Very, very softly.

Quentin can only agree.

Getting to the trunk’s not too bad. He unlocks it from a few feet away. The lid creaks open with a tug of magic, and their luggage tumbles down the slope, before sliding to a stop at the bottom. He doesn’t have it in him to be upset.

The kit’s in a small carpet bag – _very Mary Poppins, Jules, nice touch_ – ‘cause it’s supposed to hold more than just wound dressings. Not, like, full on defibrillators, or casts, or insta-surgery or anything. But enough to keep them alive. He manages to hook his toes through the handle, using his leg to bring it up, like a monkey. More pushing and snagging and dragging, and he gets it up over his head. He struggles back to the prone body above, pushing the bag forward, like that stupid clay fucking elephant on fucking _Zoboomafoo_ –

( _It wanted to watch every episode_ , _all sixty-five, non-stop, for days, but Brian had finally gotten a few hours of sleep._ )

– and he flinches at the thought. He also shoves away that horrible, nails-on-a-chalkboard sensation he feels when he gets closer. Eliot’s still breathing. His eyes are open, staring at the sky. They’re normal.

Although he makes Quentin a little sick when he lightly murmurs, “Drugs?”

“Yeah. Drugs,” he replies, his voice breaking.

There’s nothing injectable – he doesn’t trust his hand not to shake anyway – but there’s a packet of something good. The label says it’s for localized stuff. It’s apparently gonna have the same kick as morphine. El’s been borderline cold-turkey since April, but the thought of being sober right now can go fuck itself. He sprinkles it on Eliot’s torn arm, trying not to think of _Saving Private Ryan_ and watching his dad cry for the first time. Next, it’s a matter of making his eyes focus long enough to read the instructions on some Pepto-Bismol-looking liquid, which actually turns out to be more like Skele-gro from _Chamber of Secrets_ , just with more perks.

That blood in his mouth…. Broken ribs, maybe? Not to mention his warped legs. Yeah, this’ll do.

Eliot’s hissing in relief, as the powder starts working on his nerves. When Quentin offers him the tincture, he lolls his head back and forth, closing his eyes. Groggily, he mumbles, “Your turn.”

Completely out of his control, Quentin’s arm raises it to his mouth. He bites his lips at the last second. The bottle jolts, spilling some on his chin. 

He’s seconds from hyperventilating. His nose fills with the smell of pig intestines, and there’s a phantom fracture in his arm.

Eliot really doesn’t know that he’s doing it. He truly doesn’t. He’ll hate himself for it, after they make it out of this. If he remembers. If he realizes. If Quentin tells him.

Or, maybe, it’s not what he thinks at all. Maybe he’s just… never seen Eliot so out of his mind with pain that he’s using his telekinesis uncontrollably. Maybe the flash had been a trick of the light. Some kind of reflection, from the left rearview mirror.

What the fuck triggered it. What the fuck's behind it. Why the _fuck's_ this happening.

This's all Quentin’s fault. All of it. His fault his fault his faulthisfaulthisfaulthis–

Survive. Protect his body. Easier to just give in. He takes a swig, like he licked the ice cream cone. It tastes like boiled broccoli and an old Sharpie, and his cavities start to fill in, all on their own. Then one of his toes suddenly snaps back to normal. Huh. He didn’t even realize it was broken.

Then his shoulder’s screeching, grinding, exploding–

“AHAHAhaaaaaa!”

He drops the bottle, clutching his arm as the joint ruthlessly pops itself back into the socket.

Eliot’s trying to pull himself up, to help, but the motion jostles everything the wrong way. A fresh trickle of blood leaks down his cheek as he heaves and hacks. Swimming through the pain, Quentin grasps the bottle, before any more of it can pour out and uselessly soak into the ground. He shoves it into Eliot’s mouth, emptying the last of it down his throat. From there, it’s just a matter of minutes before Eliot’s the one screaming.

Sickening cracks. Fireworks without the thunder.

But his legs straighten out. His chest inflates the right way again. As the magic works... itself, Quentin sits them both up. Holds on to what he can, now that his other arm’s returned to life. His body’s the only thing grounding the two of them right now. And, honestly, the potion doesn’t fix everything. There wasn’t enough left to. At least Eliot’s chest stops heaving, and his breathing evens out.

Silence soon falls. The metallic-yellow of the streetlamp flickers again. Quentin settles down to sit beside him, their legs parallel, keeping his arm wrapped around Eliot as best he can. He doesn’t remember what else he saw in the carpet bag. He’s still so tired, like he’d been last year. He’s trying to think of what they need. Like they’re a pair of broken action figures. Or broken planes on a garage worktable. And the right pieces are in a jumbled heap nearby. And magic’s the fucking superglue, or whatever.

If his brain, for one goddamn second, would get over itself, and let him call them an ambulance, things would be fractionally easier. Yeah, this’s what getting fucking triggered looks like. He knows this. And he’d promised. He’d promised everyone. He’s supposed to ask for help more. Supposed to _admit_ when he needs help.

He does imagine going to a hospital. Or to the Brakebills infirmary. He imagines blood bags and IV saline drips. Pale fluorescents. Calling his friends, if he can remember their numbers.

He also remembers-

( _"_ _You care about all of them... so you’re last."_ )

And he squeezes Eliot tighter, pressing his face into his neck, smearing a little more blood by accident. Eliot’s uninjured arm comes up, squeezing back, and his head rests on top of his. He can feel the warm, abrupt huff of his exhale. It ruffles the hair on the crown of his head. 

Eliot is here. He is. Quentin died, and El brought him back months ago. _Eliot himself_ brought him back. They’re together. He’s _here_. Truly here.

Quentin’s eyes drift across their limbs. Technically, all the tears on his jeans are distressed now; a style he’d impulsively tried on two weeks ago. Something about how they looked apparently _did it_ for Eliot. That’s why he’d worn this pair today. A bribe. A just-a-little-something-I-put-on, now-come-with-me-on-a-vacation incentive. And they hadn’t _exactly_ worked. They’d wound up on the floor beside their bed. But then Eliot’d whispered, as he pulled off his spit-slick cock to take a breath, that he wanted to look over at Q from the passenger seat, and be utterly teased by that naked knee, and that tuft of hair on his opposite thigh, just within reach, for the whole drive. So, they’d sorta worked, in the end. He takes in a deep breath. Beneath it all, Eliot smells the same, like they’re still back in their bedroom. Pomade. Chanel cologne, with that hint of cedar.

“We out of the woods yet?” Eliot whispers. A lock of his damp hair falls in their faces.

Of all the fucking things, that’s what starts Quentin minor breakdown. “No,” he hiccups, finally starting to cry. Just a bit. Just enough to function. “But I think I can manage a portal. Get us to the rental.”

“We need to–”

“I know.” Quentin sniffs, wiping his bloody face on his bloody sleeve. He thinks of shoving things under his bed again. “Just trust me. Rental first.”

“Okay,” Eliot sighs. Then he swallows. “Quick” – _cough_ – “question.”

“What?”

“Uuum.” Absurdly, it almost sounds like Eliot’s about to snicker at him. His torso sways. “Where’re you getting a door? For your portal?”

Quentin closes his eyes, tears trickling down his chin. His brow furrows. “I. I don’t know. The car?”

And they can’t laugh. They can’t. Eliot’s ribs are barely healed. But, still, a few diaphragm spasms twitch out of both of them. It’s their latest NDE; they have to laugh. It’s tradition. A portal out of a car door, honestly….

After a little more digging through the kit, he finds some waterproof bandages and Master Magician-grade wound sealant. There’s some good, old fashioned rubbing alcohol he can use too. He risks diluting the powder, but it’s better than risking an infection. Plus, hoping some antibiotics are in the bag is probably asking too much by this point.

“I bit my cheek pretty bad,” Eliot realizes absently.

‘Kay, so… no internal bleeding after all? No, it can’t be that easy; he’s been coughing. But Quentin has seen enough _House MD_ to assume he’s not dealing with a punctured lung right now. At the thought, a trail of goosebumps runs down the back of his head. As brave as he is, he knows he wouldn't be able to stomach trying to fix that. But maybe the potion fixed most of it anyway? Fingers fucking crossed. 

Bending his knee for a table, he props Eliot’s arm up, so he can take care of that slice. He can’t really manage much weight with his left arm. But he can use it to wipe his tears away again.

“Wish I could take care of you,” Eliot says, just a bit above a whisper. “Wish we were there already.”

It feels selfish, and a little hazardous, but he’s glad Eliot’s voice is filling up the quiet now. His hands are busy, and that’s good. And yet, his brain would be static if that soft, low hum wasn’t drifting through the air. Sometimes Eliot's words are the only thing that can drag him out of the mire.

Too panicked to study for a first-year PA midterm? Wander into Eliot’s room “by accident,” even though he can totally see through you. He’ll take your book, toss it out the window, and monologue about which professors like to catfish each other, while he digs around in his desk for a tape recorder (which happens to be full of notes he dictated for himself last year).

Too full of dread regarding your ex-niffin ex-girlfriend? Watch Eliot kneel down next to you. He’ll tell you, as High King, that he has learned there are some fuck-ups you can never un-fuck, and then confess his plan to save Fillory just so happens to require someone who speaks fluent fanboy.

Too dead inside to even contemplate living with yourself, once that _being_ riding around in Eliot's body gets banished back to Blackspire forever? Well, peaches and plums, motherfucker. He’s alive in there.

Shaking himself out of it, he clears his throat. “At the rental?” he asks, not really needing him to clarify, but scrounging for any excuse to fill the dead air. 

“Yeah.” Eliot nuzzles the top of his head. He doesn’t even flinch when Quentin rips his sleeve off, and practically douses his whole arm in alcohol. Not one comment – about how it’s Prada or Valentino or whatever. Damn, things must be really bad - although he does wrinkle his nose at the sharp smell. “I liked the picture you showed me.”

“Wasn’t gonna take you to just any old place.” Three tuts, and he calls over a towel, from a tote in the backseat. The neon green fibers soak up as much blood as they can. He tosses it away, seals up the wound, and wraps it in the bandage. “You deserved somewhere you’ve never been before. With a shitload of windows.”

And without any warning, a mown lawn slams up underneath them. Quentin and Eliot fall backwards, as they go from an incline to flat ground instantly. The grass prickles through all the holes in his shirt. Like he’s lying on a cactus, not gentle turf. It’s much darker out. Still dewy. But the sounds and smells of the calm sea are flooding in, ten times stronger. And when Quentin turns his freshly aching, over-jostled head to the side? The beachside rental house, and its walls of windows, are only yards away.

Eliot groans.

Quentin is shaking, as he pushes himself upright.

They… they Travelled? On their own?

Turning away from the house, his shaking gets worse. Eliot is blinking his eyes open, squinting up at the faint stars. His irises are... _shining_ – a stomach-churning, neon golden-orange. Just like before. Quentin doesn’t move, barely breathes, as the glow flickers and sputters out, and Eliot’s eyes go dark.


	2. Eliot

He is bruised.

He is broken.

He is bloodied.

And if he didn’t want – with every jangled bone in his miserable body – to make sure Q was okay and safe? Then he’d’ve passed out a long, long time ago. Let the universe have its way with Eliot Waugh. Wouldn’t be the first time. He’s probably earned it by now.

His one caveat: it’s gonna keep its fucked-up claws off of Quentin Coldwater. So, considering they’ve been through a car crash, he’s gonna stay a-fucking-wake.

Especially because: Eliot’s used to blank spots in his memory.

They were, once, almost a point of pride. His record was a weeklong void of lost time, about two years after he’d escaped Indiana. He’d realized there _were_ one or two parts of himself still chained there, no matter how hard he tried to snap its barbed-wire shackles and leave it all behind. Hence: the record. It ended with him coming back to himself in Rye, New York. At fucking Playland. He hadn’t even been sunbathing out on the beach. He’d been hunched over in the bleachers of the park’s ice rink, watching some fucking _hockey game_ , and his nose was running with blood and mucus from all the coke and cold air. When he’d bragged about it later, he left that part out.

Now, the more recent blank spots? They’ve taken on a less nebulous shape. Like, solid, permanent bruises on his heart, whose loss he genuinely regrets. Shaped like… a night of emptied wine- and emotion-bottles… or Teddy’s fourth birthday… or the first time he’d heard his granddaughter’s laugh. Gone. Possibly forever. Their absence would probably never stop hurting.

There are, also, some recent moments that he _wishes_ were blank spots, but aren’t. ‘Cause, funny thing, but The Monster, like... took his body out to go do donuts in the cosmos’s parking lot, not so long ago. And Margo has refused to leave him alone about it. She’s been cornering him about what he remembers bi-weekly, ever since Project Fuck Jane Chatwin; We Resurrect Who We Want happened six months ago.

He had hoped Quentin’s ridiculously sweet vacay would give him a break from all of Margo’s side-eye. Plus, she’s still got a Dark King to overthrow. Doesn’t she have better, less pitying things to do?

Okay, fine. He’s being bitchy. Margo hasn’t been _cornering_ him, exactly. That’s just how it feels. And, yes, he had a feeling Q was gonna try and make him talk during this trip at some point too. And he’d hoped all the life-affirming sex they’d be having would distract him, so he’d never get around to asking. 'Cause Eliot doesn’t want to tell him any of it. There is a genuine risk that he’ll spill _everything_. And _then,_ after, he might even start telling Quentin about the door, and he can’t have that.

He still sees it now. Planted upright, in the middle of the lawn. No matter how many times he blinks, it’s still there.

“Did we….” He coughs, wincing at the coppery taste still flooding his mouth. “Did I just lose time?”

A long moment stretches by. It’s filled only with the sound of wind off the ocean.

“What… what do you mean?” Q finally says.

Eliot can tell he’s keeping his voice as neutral as he can. Worry sinks into his stomach. It knots and squirms, just above the mottled red scar in his side. “We. We were just on a hill. After the crash….” He trails off on purpose. Quentin likes it when he can fill in the gaps, but he’s not taking the bait. Eliot has to force himself to keep talking. “Last thing I remember, you were fixing me up. But then we’re here now. So… did my brain just… skip over you carrying me bridal style all the way here?”

“No. I. Didn’t carry you bridal style.” Q sounds like he’d smile, or roll his eyes, under _any_ other circumstances. But he’s rigid. Tense. Like an unlucky audience member, pulled into an amateur street magician’s act, and it’s their first time sawing someone in half. “We’re. Here now. That’s all that matters.”

“Q, seriously. If I lost time, I could have–”

“You didn’t,” he bites out. “We were… there. And now we’re here.”

“But–”

“I’ll tell you later, okay?!” His voice breaks, and he glares at him with shattered eyes.

Eliot freezes. He says, “Okay,” a little too lightly. An old habit he’s never been able to break. Whenever he’s scared, his voice gets higher, and his sentences get clippy. For some reason, though, some of that tension bleeds out of Q’s shoulders. Maybe it was the sound of it. The Eliot-ness of it. Sometimes he does things, and they just help, although he has no idea how.

Quentin scrubs his face with his bloody, grass-stained hands. “Sorry. God, I’m. I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t– Let’s, um, get inside.”

Before he can think about moving, Quentin is already staggering to his feet and coming over. With a few stop-and-go tugs, and several painful stumbles, they manage to get Eliot upright and standing. His legs are little more than wobbly sticks.

It might be The Shock talking, but Eliot has a brief moment of insanity, where he imagines Q piggy-backing him through the front door. It’s tall enough; that darkly-stained threshold. They could do it.

( _It used to be Teddy’s favorite game, ‘til he got too big for it. He got that from his dad._ )

They meander drunkenly across the grass, Eliot’s good arm slung over Quentin’s shoulders. Wetness sinks into Eliot’s loafers, chilling his toes. It’s not how he’d prefer to find out he can feel things below the waist, but he’ll take it.

“I can get the door, I think,” he offers.

The stone porch is a few feet away, and he’s the one with a free set of hands. But Quentin just casts, without so much as a “I got it”, and the door swings open.

Worry twinges inside him again. Honestly, it’s a drop in the ocean; he knows that. He should get over it. But it sticks with him, gnaws at him. He doesn’t even glance around to judge the interior design.

Thing is, Quentin’s not being chatty. He’s not babbling or mumbling or muttering. Not even to himself. He'd talked Umber out of his self-isolation. He talked The Beast into distraction. He borderline calculated _all_ the mosaic patterns under his breath. But when he’s crumbling under the weight of something too big to handle alone, and he’s convinced he has to do it alone anyway – because on certain bad days, he’s a bleeding heart, and anyone else offering to staunch the bleeding just “doesn’t understand how important it is”– he stays quiet. Like when he was killing himself carrying a niffin inside his back. Or when he’d promised he'd relieve an ancient knight from guard duty.

Q hisses between clenched teeth. They stop halfway across the open floor space, breathing hard, bathed in the shadows cast by moonlight. They’re probably getting blood on the carpet.

Right. They were just in a fucking car crash. Maybe that’s all it is.

No, come on, that’s a huge fucking thing in of itself. That’s a whole load of guilt Q’s probably wrestling with. Which they _will_ talk about, once things are back to normal. Eliot is more than ready to fight off the onslaught of Q beating himself up about it. By any means necessary. He’s going to think it was all his fault – which it wasn’t, and Eliot’s not going to bend on that.

If there’s one thing that’ll never become a "blank spot," it’s that shit happens. Particularly to them.

Although.

There is this _microscopic_ question, in the back of his head. It wants to point out there must be _some_ reason why they crashed. And it’s not getting any quieter.

He slams that away for now. “Take a breather,” he encourages, squeezing Q’s arm a little, trying to reassure him.

Q just lurches forward again, still not saying anything, and they make it into the giant bathroom. The lights are either on motion sensors, or just plain magic. They blink on without a switch. It’s painfully bright, and they both grunt and wince from the intensity. The reflection from the giant mirror above the sink lances into their eyes. Q deposits him on the lowered toilet seat cover. There’re some pretentious (or possibly beautiful) abalone shells inlaid on the molding. He can see them between his legs. There’s even one of those weird moss bathmats, from those Instagram ads, stretching along the tan tile floor. But it’s right outside one of the prettiest showers on the planet, so he’ll give it a pass.

“Please tell me that shower’s half the reason you picked this place,” Eliot wheezes. Just to say something.

Q glances at it. “Yeah. I guess.” He turns away, clenching his jaw as he gets on his knees. He opens up the white cabinets below the sink, digging around for something.

Eliot’s heart throbs. Seeing Q like this, properly, in the light? The blood still coating his face? The shoulder he’s favoring? All the nicks and cuts staining his gray shirt? His upsettingly ruined jeans? Knowing there’s nothing Eliot can really do about any of it? He turns away. He has to. So, yeah, how about that shower, huh?

It’s like a circular grotto. Behind the glass doors, there’s nothing but teal and sky-blue mosaic glass. Smooth, shimmering squares and round stones, with the thinnest layer of grout between them. Also: no showerhead. Apparently the water sprinkles down through a fixture of nozzles in the ceiling. And there... really isn’t even a ceiling. It’s a skylight, so the sun can pour in during the day. Along the round wall is an embedded shelf, lined with shampoos and scrubs and body washes and loofas. A wide bench curves all the way around the interior. Definitely big enough for two people.

Oh, just think of all the sex they' should be having in there. And clearly won’t be having anytime soon.

Well, that’s probably Mr. Shock talking too. Or not. Maybe it’s just him. The buttons on his shirt start popping free all on their own. Q’s not doing it; he’s still kneeling on the floor, getting the Lysol and Fabreeze and Kaboom out of his way, on the hunt for more first-aid.

Wonder why that carpet bag didn’t come with them….

Eliot must’ve undone the buttons, then. Just by thinking about getting clean. Reaching out with that… prickle in his brain. It’s stronger than it usually feels. It feels good.

The rest of him... feels gross. He blinks. And then he’s inside the shower. But... he’s still in his clothes?

“The fuck….”

Right, uh, no matter what Q says? He is losing time. He’s definitely not behaving rationally. Climbing right in like this? And then closing the door behind him? Something’s wrong. Fuck, all he’d wanted was a shower. To get in and get warm and clean and–

The silver handle turns. Warmth seeps across his shoulders and down his front. He hisses as his nerves ignite. At the sound of water, Q whips his head around. Then his eyes jerk over to look at Eliot. Absolute fear fills them.

“Q?” Eliot says. And he doesn’t mean to sound afraid too. He doesn’t. He’s supposed to be good about keeping that out of his voice. But it comes through anyway. And that fucking wooden door’s across the room again, blocking the mirror.

**_Eliot._ **

That.

Was his own voice whispering.

But he didn’t say anything.

His clothes are getting soaked.

“Q, you need to call someone.”

The fear in Quentin’s eyes recedes, but Eliot doesn’t like what takes its place. His pupils go a little lifeless, like they get on a very bad day.

( _Like they got when Eliot’s hands were around his ne–)_

No.

_("Too tired to care anymore.")_

NO.

Q’s climbing back up, grunting, “No, it’s okay.”

“I just lost time again,” Eliot overrides. “And my magic’s a little haywire.”

Quentin swallows. Other than that, no reaction. It’s… not surprising to him. Not even a little. He’d already noticed. And hadn’t said anything. And now he’s reaching out with one hand. Trying to sooth. Like he always did when he was ( _getting in the way, shielding the others with his body, trying to mollify The M–)_

NO.

And he’s saying, “We’re still getting you patched up, and. And after–”

But Eliot yells, “Brain stuff isn’t something you patch up!” He takes a step forward, right under a trickling stream of water. It hits him in the eye, and his whole body suddenly spasms. Everything violently _stings_. It _burns_ and _scorches_. He’s covered in scrapes, bruises, gashes. Every nerve is blaring, screaming on red alert. His legs aren’t strong enough to keep him up. His knees fold. Q’s too slow to catch him as he yanks the glass door open, but a quick spell saves him from cracking his head on the floor.

Air. He needs air. He needs air and Q and for the water to stop being fucking–

The water stops. Quentin startles when it happens, then forces himself to move, manhandling him off the tiles. It sends new waves of pain through his limbs. He tries not to cry out, but a few whimpers escape.

“Q, talk to me. Please. _Please. What_ is happening?” His face is hot, boiling. His eyes are squeezed so tight, the muscles themselves start hurting. He hangs his head, gripping the fabric of his shirt. “If I’m scaring you, if I’m doing something that’s making you act like this, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be, I promise. I’m sorry, okay? I’m so sorry. Tell me what I’m doing wrong, please, I’m sorry I’m–”

( _Because he’s scared Quentin before. More when he first came back. Less as time went on. But it still happened._ )

( _And he remembers why._ )

Tears splash down his nose, plodding down his cheeks and chin. Whose are they? Quentin’s? His? Who the fuck knows. It’s just better this way. That the sobs aren’t stuck inside, clogging him up. Like all the other bad emotions he’s never able to process like a normal fucking basket case of a human being.

And then the water’s back. He nearly cries out again, thinking his telekinesis is AWOL _again,_ until he sees Quentin’s arm, reaching high up, his fingers gripping the handle. Wordlessly, once he lets go, Quentin peels off all their clothes. He slides Eliot’s open shirt off his shoulders, tossing it into a heap on the tile, far away from the drain. Goodbye shoes, goodbye socks. Goodbye slacks, and goodbye jeans. Goodbye cow, jumping over the moon. Goodbye, yellow brick road.

Quentin’s sturdy arms wrap around him, sliding across his ribs, and along his back. Their chests press together, as Q, very slowly, crawls onto his lap, right where he knows Eliot likes him. And Eliot’s head just… falls, landing on Q’s bony shoulder. They sit there, warming by degrees, warming each other, like a bad rom com moment, like solace, like safety, like _care_. One of them even starts swaying a little, as everything washes away. Eliot brings his arms up too, and wraps his entire body around his love, as much as he can. Breathing as much as he can, through his stuffy nose. Trying to just smell him. To feel him here.

God. Quentin's skin. Eliot loves it. How it ghosts under the pads of his fingers. How he’s gained weight, finally, over the past few months. Filling out, healthier than he’s been in years. How he’s always just a bit hairier than Eliot actually remembers, along his thighs and forearms, and that little happy trail that crosses his belly button on its way down. How there are little moles he can feel along his shoulder blades, ones Q might not even know he has. How, after all this time, that giant letter is still emblazoned on his back. Like he’s the only one with a universal right to it. Like he’s earned it more than anything else in creation.

The water turns that uncanny, bright red-orange color, as their blood circles the drain. With a few gentle rubs, Eliot washes it off of Q’s cheek, revealing a pink blush underneath, and the slightly broken man it belongs to. And there’s grime, and grit, and the tinkling of glass shards falling out of his hair. Someone starts crying again, as they look at each other. Maybe they both are. The echoes of their sobs are familiar. Almost exactly like the sounds they made when they reunited last year. How they’d cried, feeling Q’s resurrected heartbeat together. It’s the first memory Eliot’s been happy to think of all night. Bambi would say that’s maudlin bullshit. He relishes it all the same.

Quentin’s here. He gets to hold him for seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, years, decades. He’s _here_.

They didn’t die in that car crash. They’re still together. God. They’re _still together_. They didn’t get ripped apart again. They’re not going to go morning after morning, after morning, after too many goddamn mornings, without each other. He’s done that before. And he _refuses_ to do it again. Not for a long, long, _long_ , fuck-all-you-gods-and-Destiny-he’s- _mine_ -forever time.

Without breaking too much contact, Quentin reaches up, using a spell to float down a bottle of body wash that's so upscale, there’s not even a brand name on it. As he moves, the water taps the tiniest splash patterns on Eliot’s skin. The feeling is like a tiny massage. Or like a message of tranquility, in ancient code, whose translation’s been lost but the meaning remains clear as day.

Eliot closes his eyes. Rosemary and mint. He gets hints of them through his clogged nose, along with other scents he can’t name. Then there’s slickness. Soap-coated Quentin hands. They’re gliding up Eliot’s neck, down his back, across his shoulders. Pressing into the muscles. Easing out all the stress. Overpowering all the sharp stings with aloe. Eliot opens his eyes as Q starts leaning back. Shifting on Eliot’s sore thighs a little, he brings his careful touch to his front, charting swirls and loops across his pecs and nipples, trailing down to his belly. And Q’s brain seems to be taking it easier on him. He’s lingering on the curls across Eliot’s chest. Watching them bend and sway with the soap, slightly mesmerized, as always, for some reason he’s never been able to explain. 

“Can I kiss you?” Eliot whispers.

Q nods automatically. But Eliot doesn’t move until Quentin meets his gaze. Until he sees a slow, thankful, comforted smile spread on his face, and it reaches his breathtaking, molasses-brown eyes.

Eliot fits his hand over the tattoo, drawing Quentin close again, bending his stiff neck to press an openmouthed kiss right on top of his heart. He keeps his mouth there, not moving, feeling a beat against his lips. Q shudders, and his shoulders droop. Streaming locks of his wet hair fall across Eliot’s face like a curtain. As he trails his mouth upwards, one kiss after another, the soap on his chest sticks to Quentin’s briefly, before the tapping, padding, tingling water carries the suds away. He slots his other hand behind Quentin’s neck, thinking of every time, and no time in particular. He looks up once more, straight into his eyes, and brings their mouths inches apart.

**_Eliioot…_ **

He shivers. No. He didn’t hear that. He didn’t.

“This still okay?” he says.

Because some hesitation’s still there. The heartbreak of seeing it… is only outweighed by the moment when every ounce of doubt disappears, and Quentin says, “ _Please_.” And he beats Eliot to the kiss. He’s the one pressing their lips together, his gasps slipping into Eliot’s mouth. Quentin trembles, and nips at his bottom lip. “I’m, I’m sorry too.”

“Don't be,” Eliot says. It hurts to talk. His voice scrapes along his throat, from all the shouting he did in the car. “Whatever it is? Don’t be.”

Quentin kisses him again, his breath a wisp, his tongue a lick of heat. “You didn't do anything wrong. You didn't," he reassures. He presses benedictions to each of his eyelids, down his cheek, along his jaw, undoing him with each and every one. “I promise. I _promise_.”

Eliot feels Q’s legs cross behind him. Feels the press of his heels, right above his ass, drawing him even closer. Another tiny shift, and their cocks brush against each other. They both startle.

He knows this isn’t the best idea. They need to heal. Need to sleep. Need to talk. He should be convincing Q that – if an ambulance is out of the question – getting Penny-23 to take them back home is the next logical step.

But.

Fuck, blame it on nearly dying. Blame it on the pain, or the drugs. Blame it on the fucking shower, or fifty years and proof of concept. He’ll never say no to this.

He drives his hips up again, sending a wave of delicious heat through his belly. Quentin whimpers, his eyes shut tight in pleasure.

**_Eliiiiiiooot…_ **

“Yeah, Q?”

Quentin stills. “Yeah.” He pulls back, a hurt look crossing his face. “I am sorry. And it’s fucked up of me to get you all worried. Instead of just… talking to you. About… about what’s been going on.”

No. No no no. Damnit, he’d slipped up. He’d lost his concentration; he didn’t mean to– That’s not what he meant to– Just because it’s good Q wants to talk, that doesn't– He doesn’t want Q to think–

**_ELIOT._ **

That goddamn door’s replaced the shower door now. Some strange, ungodly light is blazing through the gaps in the boards.

“El?” Q whispers.

Shit. He’d turned his head to look. He’s not supposed to react. He’s not supposed to give it his attention. Like whatever Russell Crowe saw. From that weird movie he watched for an elective at SUNY. And he can’t stop staring, now that he’s really looking. He knows exactly how it feels to open it. To step through it.

Quentin slides his hands up, cupping his jaw and gently bringing Eliot back to look at him. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

God, Q looks so scared. So worried. Eliot makes himself focus on _here_. On _now_. He presses his face right into Quentin’s neck. So he sees nothing but him, nothing but his love, his reason for being, surrounding him. Grounding him. Filling every inch of his vision. He feels Q swallow. Feels his chest rise and fall, as they match every inhale and exhale. And he wills the door to go the _fuck_ away.

This isn’t a memory. It’s _not_ a memory. It’s NOT. This is REAL. He’s not stuck in his own head. He’s never been here, in this shower, in this house, on Cape Cod.

He _hasn’t_. He _knows_ he hasn’t. Not once.

Even though they somehow got here in the blink of an eye, as quick as thinking about it, and–

Stop. Stop thinking about that.

Think about… think about….

If only he’d been better at hiding and burying all those memories. Then Q might never have planned this trip in the first place. They would never’ve crashed. Maybe all this was Eliot’s fault after all. Honestly, when isn’t something his fault?

Sure. That’s as comfortable a rabbit hole to go down as any.

**_ELIOOOOOOOOT._ **

Where the FUCK is that voice coming from?! He’s shaking. He can’t stop. Quentin squeezes him tighter, and he knows he’s really scaring him because he can _hear_ the crumbling devastation in his voice as he starts to call him a bunch of nicknames, ones that never really stuck. His wonderful babbling is finally back, but at what fucking cost? Eliot’s got nicknames for him to spare, but Quentin’s always just been satisfied with “El.” Except now, he’s got “sweetie,” “honey,” “baby,” and fucking Elvish tumbling out of his mouth as he holds him with every last ounce of strength he has.

There’s a _knock, knock, knock_ against the door, and for a moment, Eliot swears he’s back in the Happy Place, internal mantra be damned. As all the nicknames fail, because Eliot’s still sliding further and further into the hell of his own mind, Q’s words stumble to a halt. Then, he starts humming.

The tune’s barely coherent. Quentin’s voice cracks and breaks on the chorus, and he drops so many notes. His vocal cords are just as tired as the rest of him. And Eliot’s never been more grateful to hear Taylor fucking Swift. “Love Story” is the LAST thing he expects to work, but it’s so _Quentin_ , so real, that Eliot smiles against his throat, choking back a pained laugh.

He did this for Teddy once. Their son had a bad case of night terrors, four years after Arielle. Weeks went by, and no one had any idea what was causing them. When he’d tried everything, and there was nothing else he could think of to do, and he was out of his mind with begging, praying, for anything that could beat Teddy’s cruel imagination, Quentin asked him to take a break. Go for a walk; clear his head. When he'd come back, he’d heard him singing, so so badly, as much for himself as their son. But Teddy was finally, _finally_ drifting off. For whatever reason, the nightmares stayed away after that.

He blinks, raises his head, and the door’s back on the other end of the room. The light coming through the cracks has gone dark. He's able to find his voice again. “Is it...” he sniffs, “Is it ‘cause my name rhymes with Juliet?”

“You caught me,” Q deadpans weakly. His Adam’s apple wobbles a little, betraying him.

Eliot brings a hand up to the back of his head, bringing him close and brushing their foreheads together. It’s the biggest thank you he can manage.

“Sorry if my pitch sucked.” ( _Sorry that you’re in so much pain, and there’s nothing I can do.)_

“It always sucks,” Eliot says. ( _Don’t beat yourself up over something that I’m powerless against too.)_

“Thought the acoustics would make up for it.” ( _Tough shit, El. I’m beating myself up for it anyway.)_

Eliot shakes his head, rubbing their noses together. “Nope, and they never will.” _(But I’d never want you to.)_

Quentin huffs through his nostrils. There’s only so much snark he can dish out.

“Hey.” Eliot pulls back, cupping his cheeks. “That was entirely the compliment I meant it to be.” ( _You help just by being here_.)

“I know.” ( _If you say so.)_

His wide, red eyes dart over Eliot’s face, then he gnaws his bottom lip. “You were worried you were back there?”

Eliot can’t repress his shudder. That’s answer enough.

More to himself than to Eliot, Q says, “We made a promise, didn’t we,” in that lovely, screw-segues way of his.

“We’ve made a couple...?”

“The one before I ate you out on the balcony.”

Oh. Yeah. The one from that massive argument three months ago. Where they’d both been stubborn jackasses, and said some awful things they didn’t mean. The one where they eventually compromised, agreeing on the _novel_ concept that hiding big, emotional truths from each other was a no-no. And that they would just _tell_ each other things from now on. Which, thankfully, ended with some exhausting semi-public oral that they both very much needed.

To be fair, they’ve both broken the promise a few dozen times since then. Thank you, broken brains and traumatic flashbacks. But this is the first time, officially, Q’s calling them both out on it.

“So. The car. The crash. It’s,” Q hangs his head, letting all the air out of his lungs. “It’s because… I…”

Eliot clears his throat, wincing from the ache. “Okay, this is _not_ me trying to avoid this. It’s not,” he says, half lying. “But if it’s time to talk, capital T, then we should probably finish washing and get out first.” He raises an eyebrow. “Daddy’s got a diamond-grade ass, but it wasn’t made for sitting on this floor too long.”

A long moment passes. Quentin just might take the bait, and table everything for tomorrow. But he looks up, brave as always, and raises an eyebrow of his own. “More like platinum,” he says. “It’s getting saggy in your old age.”

Although, because irony is karma’s sister-bitch, his back audibly cracks as he heaves himself up off of Eliot’s lap.

“Shut up.”

Eliot puts a hand over his heart. “I’m sorry, are you talking to me, or that ancient thing you call a spine?”

“Right. And which of us got glasses first?”

“The one who _didn’t_ get rheumatism first.”

It takes them back, bickering like this. Surrounded by a pattern of colors. Dealing with bodies that don’t work more often than they do. Dealing with the impossible. Together, feeling their age, they haul Eliot up onto the bench, and Eliot submits himself to the lovely but exasperating ordeal of being bathed.

Quentin is pathologically incapable of using the right amount of conditioner. He always ends up coating his hands, and the excess dribbles right down the drain. All the same, there are few things in this world more relaxing than his nimble fingers on Eliot’s scalp. He never rushes that part. Not in all the years they’ve done this for each other.

Sure, he never waits for quesadillas to cool. He stays up all night to finish the latest Percy Jackson ( _“they’re not all about Percy, El”_ ). And he just… goes through the motions when it comes to washing himself. Whenever - _if_ ever - he makes a dorky, dirty show of it, it's only because Eliot has dropped about fifty hints. And he still uses Head-And-fucking-Shoulders 3-in-fucking-1 the whole time, like a total brat.

But if it’s Eliot’s body? Not a single lock of hair gets distractedly scrubbed, or hastily tugged. Every inch of skin earns a slow, steady caress. He avoids all of his ticklish spots. Worships him with sneaking kisses. And tonight, he even almost goes for the sugar scrub, remembering, like a very good boy. But they both share a look, and silently agree to skip it. They’ve had enough exfoliation for today.

Steam clouds the shower’s glass door. As he starts to drift off, his muscles finally loosening, Eliot nearly thinks of writing I-heart-Q in the fog.

Except he sees **LET ME OUT** on the glass instead. Condensation smears the letters, as droplets trickle to the floor. A chill runs down his spine. And Q seems to realize that the tension’s not leaving him anymore, no matter how hard he tries. After that, he’s still gentle, but he hurries, and doesn’t ask what Eliot’s staring at, no matter how much he obviously wants to. He brings him under the water, rinsing it all away, then climbs out and gets some towels.

Q doesn’t react to the letters as he goes. They really are in Eliot’s head then, just as much as the rest of it.

Thinking it was all a byproduct of the crash would be easy. Comforting, even. Except he’d started seeing that door two days ago. Ever since that fucking nightmare kept happening to him, whenever he tried to sleep.

The voice is a new development, though. And those knocks. And, oh yeah, Quentin had looked at him before just like….

Just like he did in all those memories that weren’t his.

He tells himself not to _think_ it.

He’s not going to let that... _insidious_ idea even come together. To congeal into something cohesive.

He propels the idea out of a cannon. Buries it in the backwoods. Battens down the hatches.

But the thought forms all the same.

What if… the axes didn’t work all the way?

Maybe a part of The Monster… is still inside him. And it’d found his Happy Place, and was trying to get out.

Well. Shit.

He wants to smile. He wants to laugh. A full body, Coo Coo for Cocoa Puffs cackle.

Because otherwise, he’s going to start screaming again. Loud enough to shatter all the glass around them.


	3. The Monster

I did not understand what it was like to feel empty, until I stopped feeling empty. I was always empty before. It was the only thing I could remember. Until it wasn’t.

(I do not want to go back to that emptiness.)

(I WILL NEVER LET THAT HAPPEN. I REFUSE.)

But once I was not-empty–

(whole? Whole.)

Once I was whole, I was still… dissatisfied. Unhappy. Even though I found her again. My other. My half. The half who knew. Who remembered, who planned, who was more split apart than I had ever been but more whole than I could ever be. She had drive. Vision. Hatred. Purpose. More than I could ever have.

I was _just_ figuring out what I wanted next – _because what do you do, Quentin, when you finally have what you thought you wanted most?_ – but then she said we were going after those who made us. Parents? Progenitors. Precursors. Old Gods.

We could not die. What did we have to lose?

(Each other. Again.)

( _Those_ four – the _real_ MONSTERS – did it once. Separated us. Someone could again, I worried. Not that we would let them; Sister would never let them. But… what if… someone could?)

(And, it turns out, someone did. Your friends did, Quentin. See. I was right to be worried.)

I admit it, I did not really want to do battle. To wage cosmic war against thought-beings is fine, I guess. But did we have to do it… right away?

Weren’t there lots of other things we could do first?

But… how could I tell Sister what I wanted to do… when what she wanted mattered too?

(Didn’t it?)

Well, it definitely mattered more than you, Quentin. You and your games and your morals and your _stop-it!_ s. Much much much much more than your boring _eliot eliot eliot_ ; that’s certain.

Because Sister was my other, my half. She was what made me whole. So I had to want what she wanted, right?

Right?

(When can I stop being confused? When can I stop my not-knowing and just _know_? Know what to do. What to feel. How to make people my friend. How to not be empty.)

(Empty? Not-whole? Broken? Alone? Alone. How to not be _alone_. That’s what I always wanted. That’s what I still want. Please. Please do not make me be alone.)

Ora used to be my only friend. She made sure I was not alone. She gave me what I wanted.

I snuck through her mouth and into her head and muscles and nerves, just like all the others. Had to. The _charlton_ body was dead, and I did not want to float around, senseless, unanchored. I always wondered what it would be like, to see through her eyes. See my old little _charlton_ body slumped, bleeding, shot dead on the ground. He was the only one I did not eat.

At first I thought it was another game Ora set up. She would be with me, inside, while I played with you outside. So clever, Ora! So generous! Like she always was. She would tell me stories, play all kinds of games. Feed my mind, my heart. I always marveled that she was so good at it. She did everything for the two of us, for millennia! Because she planned. Had drive. Vision, love, purpose. More than I thought I could have.

Except.

Why couldn’t she just give me her purpose? Her I-always-know-what-to-do-and-why-I-do-it. She did not need it; she was not using it anymore. Especially when the minds of my old bodies were ripping her apart inside me.

But her purpose was… me. Wasn’t it. And she couldn't give _me_ to me.

If anything….

If anything, Ora helped keep half of _me_ away from me. Helped Calypso help those MONSTERS keep Sister’s pieces inside their chests. For millennia.

I burn and rage and tear and hate, every time I think about this. Now that I know. Now that I have realized Ora was only there in our old home, our vast castle, _just_ for that. She was supposed to be a Sister-surrogate, though I had no idea at the time. To keep me away from them, so I wouldn’t go and get _me_ back. She was there for that, and nothing else. For millennia.

But Ora loved me. I felt it.

I cannot forget that. I cannot.

I can’t.

Quentin, I know you never loved me; I could feel that too. But you helped me, better than Ora did. Even if your help was only because you loved the _eliot eliot eliot_ body I was in.

But it’s not… not right! Not fair! You _know_ what it is like to be whole, and not-alone, and not-empty. You know what it is like to have your whole being go _yes yes yes_ as you get what you want. You know the feeling - of _wanting_ , insatiably. And, also, to be satisfied completely. _And_ still want, and still be satisfied, all at once. You’ve lived it! Whenever you were kissing _eliot eliot eliot_ , or hugging him, or just close to him, you felt that. It was just like the tequila, or churros, or cheese puffs. Cereal. Ice cream. Punishing the MONSTERS and ripping Sister’s pieces out of them. The _quiet_ of those woozy woods.

No. It was **Better**.

Better than all that combined, forever.

You were _healed_ mended _wanted_ whole with him.

And you felt wanted, to a different degree, other times too. Like when you were with the little not-god Julia, or little royal Margo, or all your other friends. That tiny zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz in your head of _belonging_ and _collaboration_ and _fixing_. Even when those dark thoughts – the numb, hurting, self-hating churning cesspool of sadnesses that got bigger and bigger and bigger and bigger, always bigger – were slithering around in your soul, you still felt not-alone.

Until you did.

But….

So….

Why did Quentin get to have that, and I didn’t?

Why didn’t he ever show me? Show me how to have that?

I could read it in his brain, whenever he looked at me and _remembered_ and _missed_ and felt just like I felt – _empty, alone, broken_ – because I was inside his friend.

He did not _have_ to try and trick me all the time! He could have just helped. He could have stopped wanting _eliot eliot eliot_. If he had just done that, I would have been nicer. And I… I would have asked him– Asked him to teach Sister all of the silly rules to all the weird games we played together. I would have! I would! Because he was fun to play with. Because Quentin taught me so much. More than Ora ever did. He taught me a little about what dying means. And how to trick people for their own good. How to bargain. How to not give up, to stand up for what you want, and to keep looking for answers, even if you have to do a lot of boring reading to do it. That is why I never killed him.

I think.

Is that why I never killed him?

Now that I remember more, I suppose there are other reasons.

Because, true, he did not always do what I wanted. And that _rankled_ me. But not enough to kill him. Which… is very strange. I mean, I _didn’t_ like the way he didn’t always want the same things I wanted.

But I did, at the same time.

And… I still do.

I wanted him to help me. To give me what I wanted. But he didn’t always have to. He was not just some ice-cream-human-that-gave-me-the-wrong-sprinkles-so-he-dies. He never was, from the second I saw him, him and his flappy cards, approaching through the hall in my castle.

He tried to scare me, once. He threatened to burn me to the ground! Me! He was _like_ me, burning and raging and tearing and hating, all because I was going to hurt the _eliot eliot eliot_ body I was in, if I wasn’t careful.

I didn’t kill him because he was like me. Because there were rare times where he did like what I liked, _and_ many more times where he didn’t. _And_ that was okay. Even when he recoiled or froze at my touch, I didn’t feel alone when I was with him. Even when he was mad at me. Even when he lied to me. When he pretended to be stupid and confused, when he was really just afraid and trying to survive, so he could make sure my body survived. Even when he was doing all that, I was not-alone with him. I did not kill Quentin because he was my friend.

Why wasn’t I satisfied with just you, Sister, for company? Why did I still want a friend, when I had you?

It does not make any sense, Sister. You did not want all the things I wanted, either, did you. You did not want a name. You did not want to be shown this _beautiful_ planet – beautiful _universe_ – and all its strange rules and games. You just wanted to unleash your wrath.

I started out that way, when I was first freed. I remember. I remember I knew something was missing, and I would kill anything and anyone (except Quentin) to find it.

But then I- I changed, didn’t I? I changed from being exactly like you, Sister. You never had an Ora, loving you for millennia. And just the fact that I stepped out of my castle all on my own, without anyone telling me any of the rules, changed me too. I have always wanted to know who I was. Who I am. So I went out and found out.

I liked, when I first unleashed myself, that it was not just games and food and sleep and drink and games and sleep and games and drink and food, every day, always. There was infinitely more. I could do anything. Go anywhere. Look at anything, taste anything, smell anything, feel anything, kill anything. Sugar? Blazing sunlight from a single golden star, ninety-three million miles away? Crunchy, salty french fries? Powerful signals from the skies decoded and displayed onto liquid crystals? Silica-filled sand, on the banks of a garbage-tainted river? Head-tilting white doves, fluttering down upon clay cathedral rooves older than anything else around? A seedling, shooting up, green and determined, between the slabs of cement where human feet stomped and fled every second? Mesmerizing! And I could do with all of it… anything I wanted to. It was a game where I _won_ , every second I did something.

Well… it _felt_ like winning feels, anyway.

But only for a little while.

That’s the thing about being outside the castle. Nothing lasts. Nothing is forever. Except me.

And I was still broken. I could feel it, always. And Ora wasn’t going to do anything about it. I did have some hazy recollections that told me whose bodies I needed to slice up. That did not change either.

I thought about carving _eliot eliot eliot_ into pieces. It was an entertaining idea, the quick butchery of one annoying human while I hunted my god-prey. I would murder him for shooting me, for trying to save Quentin from me. As if Quentin would ever need saving from me. But, even when Quentin was angry at that particular very annoying human… he still followed him, in the castle. Still felt so much love for him.

So why not take that body? Get Quentin to follow me? Follow us? Because Quentin would fix me, I thought. Just a tiny, miniscule bit. The second I found him – peeling and peering through all that spellwork cascading over his skin and short-circuiting his mind – I felt different. So much less alone. I saw his face again, even though he didn’t know me, and I knew I was right.

But the way someone _knows_ something changes too. I mean, the sheer _number_ of words for the same thing. 助けて and _ayuda_ and _usizo_. _Llofrudd_ and _qatil_ and _assassino_. Or _igra_ and מִשְׂחָק and game.

I learned so quickly that the world isn’t just the bad things and the ones who wronged us. And because of that, I know now that… that I like ice cream as much as murder. I like climbing over couches, and funny shirts, and little pills, and throwing planes at the wall to break them on purpose (because Quentin’s mind _lit up_ , just for a little while, when I did). I learned that people like both their names, and derivatives of their names. Quentin was Q to Julia. Margo thought _El_ at me. Starbucks even has a game where people misspell names _on purpose_!

And I like that _I_ want a name, Sister. Even though you think I do not need one. I want a name. I want a label that tells people it is _me_ they are talking to. I am a unique thing in this universe, different from everything else.

After all the changes I have undergone, I am Not You. Not my other.

I like people looking at me; seeing that _I_ am here and not locked away in my castle. Not hidden or caged or ignorable or forgettable. They _have_ to pay attention to how important I am, how powerful I am.

And I like the little atoms that become chemicals that make my tongue zing and my arteries thunder and my eyes see the hazy boundaries of the world. It is so fun and interesting, to see the sunset leaves being plucked and yanked off of their branches by a strong influx of breathable and nonbreathable molecules. To hear the vibrations, from a taut metal coil plucked or rubbed, echoing inside a plastic or wooden chamber tucked under a chin or over a stomach, producing songs like there’s never been before.

And human _heads_. These lumps of bone and electricity and mushy tissue that imagine and remember and fear and hope and act. You can crush or slice them open as easily as you can make them laugh or cry.

If only you had just… let me show you. If only you had not wanted revenge quite so much.

Huh.

Did- did I ever see Quentin laugh?

(I do not think I did.)

It has always been reassuring, how old-and-young he is inside. He was the third oldest person in my castle, next to me and Ora, with the older- _and_ -slightly-younger-though-just-as-old _eliot eliot eliot_ and the once-niffin, hiding in the eaves, trailing behind him. Quentin’s brain always feels a little similar to how I… _am_. There is a whole other life tucked away inside him. Mixed in with his thoughts, emerging at unpredictable moments to affect his choices. Not even Ora was like that. She only had herself inside.

(Wait. No. That is wrong. I forgot. Ora used to be like that, eons ago, when we first met. That must have faded, as her old life outside our castle - all her journeys - all faded away, with time.)

But with Quentin - and even _elio…_ (alright, fine, Eliot), and the once-niffin, and Julia the not-god - they all had some _extra_ piece to them, stitched in. A paradox, adhering to them like a fourth-dimensional popped bubblegum bubble stuck to their souls.

I stitch myself to my bodies too, always. And my bodies’ minds are stitched into me. Kind of like Quentin and Eliot, only more. Much much much more. I have to. And it’s how I work. How I function.

(When Sister raced inside, and filled up the body I gave her, she never stitched. Never mixed. She never compromised, never incorporated. A vessel had to contain her, without restraining her, or it wasn’t worthy.)

I might be in a body for an hour or for a century, I never know. That’s the fun part. That’s the terrifying part. Dragging around a stupid corpse is too much work. Tried that twice, before I just slithered into the next one and ate the old one all up. So why not change myself only slightly fundamentally, if that meant staying longer inside the thing I wanted to be mine. The thing I wanted to be a little bit _me_. Better to do that than kill the body myself, anyway, just by _being_ me. It is important to keep the body I have alive, one way or the other.

Eliot was the first _really important_ one. Not the tallest, or the most powerful, but he had the blood of a king and the past of a runaway and the present of a survivor and he was _loved_. None of the others had ever been _loved_ like he was fifty years ago, _loved_ like he is now.

So why did Quentin scream at me in those woozy woods with a _separating_ unstitching _unmixing_ axe raised, ready to swing at us? Why did Margo cleave another one into my side and spill Eliot’s blood on the earth? Did they really kill him, just to stuff me in another cage? One that was going to crumble away soon, if they didn’t keep that BINDING spell going long enough?

For a little while, I didn’t know. If Eliot was dead. If I was going to get out. I only knew the pseudo-cage, the smooth glass anchoring me like the living stones of my castle used to. I had no senses to tell me anything, except my usual incorporeal ones. I knew when someone held me, carried me. Percy. The once-niffin. Quentin.

I knew when Sister suddenly WASN’T. I knew when I was thrown into THE OPPOSITE OF EVERYTHING after her, still warm from the mending magic erupting from Quentin’s soul’s handprints. Wishing I had a mouth or a psychic link to warn him. Or a body like Julia’s or Percy’s to save him.

(I should not have wanted to save him. I honestly can’t believe I wanted that, especially after he helped his friends do this to me, and to Sister. But…that is what I thought, at the time. I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to save him.)

Didn’t he know he was killing himself to get rid of me? I spent all that time with him, feeling him subtly fix me in ways that I didn’t even know I needed. And yet the one time he actually, actively, powerfully fixed the most colossal of breaks – the BLEEDING EDGE OF CONNECTION BETWEEN NOTHING AND EVERYTHING suddenly made whole and reestablished again – right in time to swallow me whole, he was also about to fracture himself entirely.

Why, Quentin? Weren’t you about to get your stupid _eliot eliot eliot_ back?

Or did he die, and you were just trying to join him?

Or was it the cesspool of sadnesses again? Did it finally convince you it was right? Did it lie to you?

I thought I would never know what happened, after that. I thought Sister and I would go on and on inside ABSENCE, forever and never. Where I would always burn and rage and hate and tear at how you took me away from your beautiful universe before I could share it with her.

And then Eliot was just… _there_. A flicker, in the periphery of me. He’d stepped into a circle where every time and no time passed. Our bond was active again. I could… almost… smell-taste the whiskey he was drinking. I could feel it burn a throat that wasn’t mine, scar our liver much more than even I had tried to.

He is the only one of my bodies to live on, after I'd used them. But he almost… didn’t feel alive then. He was so broken. So not-whole. So alone, sitting across from that Timeless Witch with his chest as cracked open as it'd never been before.

Few things shock me anymore. Surprise can be delightful, or upsetting, but it is not rare. Games only stay interesting if you get surprised every once in a while. But, oh, the absolute shock of his fury and his hurt. Because he _loved_ Quentin more than I could fathom. Because the Timeless Witch patiently, calmly told him... to let my friend stay dead.

He really was dead, then, I learned.

(How was Eliot alive without Quentin?)

(How?)

( _How?_ )

( _HOW COULD MY FRIEND BE DEAD WHEN ELIOT WAS NOT?!_ )

Before I could demand any answers, he was leaving, almost flying away, back through that barrier between _always_ and _now_.

And that flickering speck of _me_ – not Sister, but me, all me, only me – was still there, in the forgotten corner of his cells, in a box in his brain, behind the strangest, flimsiest, strongest door I had ever encountered. Eliot never died. I never got to take his mind with me. Now, he was taking me with him.

Finally. Some _fun_.

What could this tiny haze of me do, woven all throughout this lump of bone and electricity and mushy tissue like this?

Every one of the other minds I'd once kept with me was gone. _Separating_ axes can to that. All of them were finally at peace – or at unrest, depending things I couldn't care less care about. I was cosmically lighter, and a little too adrift in Eliot’s murky, drowning senses.

(What an impossible thing to experience – my dual awareness of UNEXISTENCE, and the faint existence-inside-Eliot.)

It was interesting, at first, how everything got sharper as he slowly got boringly sober. But my patience soon grew thinner than the spaces between atoms. If he would just _move aside_ inside, I would resurrect my friend so much faster than the spells and pastes and clays and Wellspring-pain-magic they stupidly kept trying to use. As if Wellspring-pain-magic was strong enough to resurrect a soul that had already Moved On. Idiots.

But Eliot never did. No matter how many times I slammed against that irrational wooden door, it didn’t budge. He did not feel me in the slightest. When those other gods he summoned gave him worried looks. Refused his resurrection petitions. Vanished before they could show their fear. Always, he never understood why.

Was this torture? Maybe it was. Maybe Quentin’s friends figured out I was in here somehow, and they decided to get a little revenge of their own. Margo made us _shower_ , like Ora had to, and we had to take _walks_ to get some _air_ even though we were breathing just fine, and we had to go back to sleep _again_ a little less than a _day_ later. 

His dreams lied to me too. Constantly. All these almost-memories and fantasy-futures and not-pasts, countless iterations of that paradoxical popped-bubblegum of time, coating _everything_ in our head at night. The dreams kept tricking me. Into thinking my friend had never died. Or that he was dying right before my eyes – _our eyes_ – and we could do nothing to stop it. Or we were playing a really strange game, and I never knew how to win.

There was one, where Quentin and Eliot’s offspring, from the not-past, was supposed to build a real volcano for school, and the little _teddy_ informed them the volcano was due today, but he hadn’t even started it yet.

In another one, Margo stole present-Quentin, to use in a scavenger hunt, and we lost because we couldn’t get through the clock to get our past-Quentin, before time ran out.

Thankfully, he also dreamed of all the people I killed. In The Library. In the city. In the woods. I got to see the MONSTERS die quite a few times. So it wasn’t all bad.

But Eliot’s face would heat and leak when he cracked our eyes open and tore us out of these illusions. Just when I was starting to enjoy myself, Eliot did these boring things like sobbing, and starving, and grabbing a book to start reading again, until Margo pried him away to go do things that would keep our body alive some more.

This close. I was _this_ close to just giving up, and going back to focusing all my attention on ANTI-BEING.

(I’ve never given up, before. Losing a game is one thing. Actively surrendering instead of playing again, on the other hand, would have been interesting enough to try at least once.)

If that horrible door wasn’t going to do anything, and if he was just going to keep failing, and not snorting anything or smoking anything while he kept failing and failing, then I refused to be this bored any longer. What was the point in sticking around, if Quentin was just going to stay dead all the time.

Then. When another resurrection attempt was on the cusp of failing, and he finally REFUSED to let it fail, Eliot took me by surprise. He _WANTED_ , as powerfully as I had ever wanted anything. I hadn’t been paying attention, I had no idea what triggered this. Suddenly, we were awash in our combined memories.

Touching him.

Hearing him explain things in a way that made sense.

Watching his fuzzy eyebrows rise and draw together when he asked a curious question.

His floppy hair in the breeze.

His smile.

His patience.

His impatience.

His anger.

His pouts and his hums and his screams and his soothing solutions.

His protection.

His touch.

Him. 

Just.

**Him.**

And we were crying. Because we lost him. Because it was our fault. And Eliot wanted him back. And I wanted him back. And we wanted him. Together. We WANTED HIM BACK.

**WANTED.**

**HIM.**

**BACK.**

Did Eliot use me? Did I use him?

Did it matter? We cast our **_wanting_** out there. Something cracked open. And he was alive. His fragile, crushable chest was _thumping_ and _inflating_ and _deflating_ and _warm_. Our blood sang, our skin pressed to his, and the little hairs on his hairy arms itched and his floppy hair tickled and he smelled the same.

There it was.

The _yes yes yes_.

The _healing_ mending _wanting_ whole.

Complete satisfaction.

Love.

We got what we wanted, entirely.

As if that was enough for me.

As if I could go back to just waiting there in the back of Eliot, forgotten, dismissed, ignored, caged, hidden. Fine with watching the two of them talk and talk and cry, and talk and talk and yell, and talk and eat and sleep and eat and cry and sleep and eat and talk. Fine with watching the occasionally entertaining movie, or TV show, or memory of me eviscerating a body. Fine with them drinking the _small_ glasses of alcohol and only _sometimes_ smoking the funny smelling leaves. Fine with being polite like Ora taught me, and giving them their privacy when they excreted waste or pollinated each other like plants or squid or geese. Fine with the sheer _boredom_ of reading and cleaning and _more_ sleeping and _more_ eating.

I tore at the door. I slammed and clawed and raged and burned.

Maybe I was not strong enough. Maybe I was not whole enough.

Nothing worked.

Until Eliot had a dream.

I did not understand why it terrified him and gutted him like that. Almost like he was back with the Timeless Witch, only this time, he didn’t have the prospect of a purpose to sew him back together.

(His purpose fell asleep in his arms every night.)

The dream really was not scary at all. I almost thought it was another happy one. Except he had soaked the sheets in sweat, and he fled the bedroom to go vomit in the sink before Quentin even woke up. I hadn’t been this fascinated in months. Why didn’t he have this dream sooner? Why did he and Quentin look just a little younger than I’d ever seen them? Why did Quentin’s eyes change from chocolate brown to sapphire blue?

And Eliot got so _delightfully_ drunk and high, as soon as his stomach could handle it.

I was worried it would never happen again. That he would get a hold of his frayed nerves and _talk_ with Quentin and they would make sense of it together. Or I would just have to wait - _and wait and wait and wait_ \- for the next nightmare.

But the exact same one happened again, very soon after. The younger faces. The dinner. The confession. The kiss. The flickering, changing eyes.

There was no talking the next morning either. And less eating. More drinking. If this was some new game, I barely cared about the rules. All I wanted was to see him play it every night.

Soon Eliot stopped sleeping. One day. Two days. Three. Oh, he tried so many things to keep himself awake! So many buzzy chemicals, so many new TV shows. His eyes _burned,_ and every ounce of mushy tissue in his head ached. Was he going to win the game? Who was the arbiter? Who would decide? What did losing mean?

When he started to actually see the door, like I did, every particle of me giggled. I could feel his eyes – _my eyes_ – looking at it from opposite mental ends. His attention would blaze across it, like meteors bombarding the moon. And… did he feel that? _That,_ right there. The edges of _him_ and _me_ , buzzing zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz and blurring mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmm whenever we stared at the door together. The lines, the boundaries, the barriers. Every hour he refused to sleep, a little more was scraped away. If I spoke to him, would he hear me? If I wanted something, could I make it happen?

Oh, and, what is this vacation truly for, Quentin?

You know that Eliot is falling apart.

Does that mean... you can tell I’m in here? I’ve felt nothing but your love for Eliot all these months; and yet, you almost killed yourself and Eliot all over again. Just because you wanted some Starbucks, and we both wanted to give it to you. Strange. Very, very strange. Now the car is useless, thanks to you, and we’re all bashed and bleeding. And as you repair us, you keep looking at us – _at me_ – like you used to. You _are_ looking at me! You know that, don’t you? Don’t you see? I am so close! Imagine what I can do once this impossible door opens! Eliot’s already using me, to get what he wants. So I’ll use him. Same amount of body-controlling. Even Steven.

(Okay, fine. I do not know if there’s enough of me to do that. I am not all here. The rest of me is a whole universe-existence away. But oh, if we could just talk again. If you could keep fixing me, more and more. If you could explain and validate everything and show me all the things I still have to learn.)

(That is what I have been waiting for, all these months. You have more games and morals and _stop-it!_ s for me, I know it. You have vision and drive and love. You might even have a purpose for me.)

I am nothing if not determined. I will never even _think_ of surrendering and going back to Sister again. Not when I almost lost my chance to have this. Eliot will give in, just you wait. He can hear me now. He can see what I want him to see.

I whisper his name. I shout it. I taunt it. I SCREAM IT.

Although, when you sing to us like that, I suppose I can wait just a little longer. You cannot sing well, not at all. It’s cute, though. Ora used to sing me to sleep. Beautiful ballads, soothing sonnets. Lullabies of such depth and simplicity. 

But I don’t think that song of yours is enough to put Eliot to sleep. Not when I’m right here.

Come on, Eliot. Come on. It’s my turn. The longer you avoid sleeping, the longer you avoid the dream. And the longer you avoid the dream, the more I seep in to your marrow. The more I make you see.

Don’t be scared, Eliot. I won’t hurt Quentin like I used to.

His blood isn’t on my hands.

It’s on yours.

It always has been.


	4. Quentin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick little heads up: I personally tend to use they/them pronouns for The Monster when I talk about them with fellow fans. However, in this fic, Quentin and Eliot will be referring to them with it/its pronouns. I figured they do this because that's how Ora and Calypso and others talked about The Monster, and that set the precedent for our boys since they haven't exactly had any chance to talk with The Monster about their personal pronouns. (Also the actual 3x13 script has both he/him and it/its pronouns, so blame that on the writers, lol.) If they ever got the chance, I'm sure Q and El would change their verbiage once they knew better. Alrighty, back to the idiots in love now. :D

Back in the spring of 2001, there was this kid Quentin nearly became friends with. He can’t remember his name. They'd swapped Pokémon cards. Took turns beating each other at Super Smash Bros. Debated how that Goonies guy wound up in _The Lord of the Rings_ , because _Fellowship_ was gonna be out before Christmas. Dad already promised to take them, and Julia was even working on how to get advance tickets. Their first PG-13 movie _in theaters_ , dude!

The reason things fell apart? He said Quentin wasn’t “the sharpest tool in the shed” at recess one day. Quentin stopped asking him over after that.

In hindsight? Two things:

One, the kid had probably just seen _Shrek_ a few times. And he’d been looking for an excuse to quote it, not expecting Quentin would take it so hard.

Two, in the end, he was right. Sure, Quentin was smart. But Martin Chatwin said it best: most people don’t walk to certain death forty times in a row.

(Forty-one, actually. A sadistic part of him enjoyed the havoc he caused the Underworld bureaucracy. If Destiny was going to grind and crunch Quentin Coldwater between its teeth that much, and that often, at least he’d made himself tough to swallow.)

Now that he’s moved Eliot out of the shower, and back onto the toilet seat, patting him dry like he’s an overstretched balloon, Q is past the point of anything _resembling_ intelligence. Sure, he knows what he’s supposed to do. They’ve had their small, mutual little freak outs. They’ve tried (and failed) to kiss it all better. He’s supposed to get his head out of his ass and his heart out of his throat. Change his mind about the Big Talk. Call 23 to get them out of here. Or Julia, or Margo. He knows the spells. Mirrors. Paper airplanes.

Instead, he’s staring at the pile of clothes beyond the glass door. The clothes he’d just… up and left in there. Like an idiot. Like Eliot Waugh himself has never once lectured him about how to care for his outfits. Like the clothes will just clean, dry, and mend themselves, without his help.

Because rental houses don’t come with spares. And their luggage is lying in a ditch off the highway somewhere.

Fuck it. They could just do this naked, couldn’t they? It’s not a bad idea. The water’s gotten warm. He might as well swim.

He did find a multipack of band aids earlier, in one of the drawers. That’ll… cover a few things. He kneels down, and snags the band aids off the floor. Then he scoots back over to Eliot. Ignoring the still tingling nerves in his shoulder, he ends up using the whole box, and all its different sizes, on everything larger than a hangnail.

Eliot has gone silent. His eyes are a million miles away as Quentin applies one bandage after another. He doesn’t remark on any of it. No mummy jokes. No “does it match my eyes.” He must’ve remembered something in the shower. Something really bad. Bad enough that he’s all out of clever quips. Maybe it’s the very memory that started all this.

Ever since Eliot brought him back, Quentin has learned to keep an eye out for these moments. Say one wrong thing while he’s zoning out? The switch gets flipped. Nothing’s wrong! We got Q back! Just reveling in the moment! But even though he’s been pleading the Fifth around everyone, even Margo? He can’t hide this from him. They know each other too well. Up 'til recently, Quentin was willing to give him his space. Hell, sometimes he needed his own space about it. That still holds true, even now. But Quentin’s stupid, exhausted brain is also still enough of a lit-nerd to say this much: putting on these band aids will become distastefully, obnoxiously metaphorical, if he’s not careful.

All the same, maybe he shouldn’t have brought up their promise earlier? He _has_ already almost killed them tonight. Can't he save hurting Eliot (even more) for another time? Save it for–

_(Remember how everyone acted, while Eliot was possessed? All the times they were willing to lock him up, hurt him, sacrifice him? And the one time you agreed with them – based on a goddamn lie, one you should have doubted from the start – you wound up with living-stone blood on your shirt, and Eliot just barely managed to save himself.)_

He takes a deep breath, guilt sucker-punching him in the gut.

That’s right. No textbook avoidance-motivated behavior, Coldwater. You have to do it. Have to talk about it. Have to figure it out for yourself. It’s too important. The only reason Margo even let Eliot out of her sight for this trip was she expected you – _trusted_ you – to get through.

And there’s no secret door here. To be honest, Quentin doesn’t want one anyway. There’s nowhere he’d consider running away to. Not unless Eliot was coming with him.

Right. Well, the next thing to do is… find a place that’s comfortable. With, you know, El’s diamond-grade ass and all. Also, the conversation they need to have _is_ gonna suck worse than stabbing a god and getting all of magic turned off. It might as well suck while they’re surrounded by comfy things. He needs to get Eliot out of his head, and to give him choices. Eliot should feel safe, and not trapped, and in control.

Quentin tosses all of the waxy bandage paper into the trash.

“For us talking, I guess we could. Uh. There’s a lounge… chaise… part. On the, uh, the sectional in the living room. Or we could find the bedroom, or….”

Eliot blinks a few times. The off-white light from the LEDs pales his skin even more. “Living room, I think,” he manages. He meets his eyes with a forced, blasé smile. “I wanna appreciate the view you got for us.”

“It’s gonna be a little chilly.”

Leaning down, Eliot pushes a wet lock of hair out of Quentin’s face, and curls it around his ear. In the softest voice, he replies, “We’ll keep each other warm.”

Like that’s just how the world works.

It _is_ kinda inspiring to hear, though. Even now, El has that much inherent faith in the two of them. Even for the little things. All clichés aside, it genuinely gives Quentin the strength to get up, sling his arm around his shoulders, and half drag, half carry him to the couch. On the way out, he’s even able to fire off some spells at the pile in the shower.

He flicks on the living room lights, but leaves them at the dimmest setting. The bulbs, nestled in the po-mo fixtures above their heads, reflect off of the glass walls like constellations in the night. Outside, the ocean crashes against the shore in the distance. Yet the peace that it brings feels close. Attainable. Welcome. That perfect, lulling white noise. A gift from the indifferent vastness beyond the glass.

The living room doesn’t have much color to its name. As though the architect saw all those cozy cottages up the road, and went with minimalism out of spite. There’s the slate-grey couch with dull cerulean pillows. A white gas fireplace is built into the far wall. A dark flatscreen Samsung is mounted on it, a few inches above eye-level. Some decorative baubles line the mantlepiece alongside the cable box and two remotes. There are a few brochures for Chatham and P-Town on the long bronze coffee table. It matches the stools beneath the quartz kitchen island on the left. The dark carpet mirrors the dewy lawn outside. It lends to the illusion that nothing separates the interior from the exterior, except the towering sheets of glass surrounding the room.

After a few more questions, Q is actually the one who gets propped up in the corner of the sectional. Once his legs are stretched out on the chaise, Eliot forgoes the pillows. He rests his head on his lap instead, so he can stare out at the dark horizon all around. Surveying the kingdom, just how he likes it.

Quentin didn’t wrap towels around their waists earlier. Guaranteed tripping hazards, those things. He… probably should be worried? That he’s nude. On display, for anyone out there looking into the house. But he’s not. Being naked with Eliot has never made him feel nervous. Not even that first time.

The waves crash and roar. So, so gently. They could fall asleep here, if he let them.

In an alternate universe, they'd just returned from some midnight skinny-dipping. And they’d decided to doze off here together, simply too tired to head to bed. Like a couple of regular, hedonist magicians. Maybe, in the AU, they’ve got the fire going, with a movie playing on the TV while they cuddle and split a bottle of Prosecco. Yeah, that would’ve been nice.

“You want the lights on, or off?” he asks. It takes some effort to keep the drowsiness out of his voice.

Eliot snorts, and shakes his head. Q rolls his eyes at him, fighting a smile. He’d accepted it long ago: one of the very reasons he was put on this earth was to provide Eliot with prompts like that. His love seems to resist temptation, though, and opts for, “Normally, I’d say ‘off.’ My hair’s a nightmare without my frizz control–”

Quentin huffs. “If I hadn’t just sat down, I’d offer to–”

“I know.” A half-smile curves across Eliot’s face. “But still. Let’s keep them on. I want to see everything. I want to see you. I want– I want to know it’s _you_ here. Not a memory.”

Not being a memory. It's an expectation Quentin never imagined he’d have to live up to. He hopes he’s been doing okay. Aside from tonight, obviously.

From what he has heard of the Happy Place, he’s always been somewhat torn. About whether he should do something to make their everyday more remarkable, or not. On the one hand, they’ve been through… too much. Excitement isn’t something they’re craving these days. And it won’t be for a long time. But over the past few months, amidst all the time they’ve spent recovering – proving to each other that their bodies are _theirs –_ it’s never hurt to try and give Eliot new experiences. To give him one or two days, here and there, that are definitively not memories. Ordering take-out from odd restaurants halfway across Manhattan, and having picnics on the roof. Stopping by TKTS to grab random tickets, for only the New and Off-Broadway. Sneaking into the MoMA afterhours. Stealing an unhitched carriage in Central Park. Playing strip Monopoly with Margo in the apartment.

It’s never a bad reminder. Hearing that he helps Eliot, just by being with him. Just by being himself.

Because Eliot helps him, too. Just by being with him. Just by being himself, and not the…

Well, not the alternative.

His heart aches and feels like it’s mending, all at the same time. He trails his fingers through Eliot’s hair. Lets the touch wander, running his thumb down his sideburns, and over the coarse stubble on his cheeks. He feels the shower-warm sweep of his skin, curving around lax muscle and bone, and the little divots and details he’s always re-memorizing. A dimple. A tiny shaving scar. A mole. The cleft of his chin, which he could spend hours nibbling and pecking with kisses. Eliot nuzzles against the touch. He runs a band aid-covered hand down his leg in return, carefully stopping just short of a few scrapes. The bandage’s cloth fibers rub along his thigh, gliding across some purpling bruises. His dark, wet curls slip down, cascading across his neck, to nestle against Quentin’s hip.

Another surge of tenderness, as familiar as breathing, fills him from head to toe. He loves him. He loves Eliot Waugh, down to his DNA. It’s in every beat of his heart. Inside every dendrite in his broken brain.

That means he can do this. Talk about what happened. This isn’t Secrets Taken To The Grave. There is, pointedly, no grave. Because they made it out. Because they’re going to figure it out. No matter how shitty things are going to get. Nothing’s tearing them apart again.

He takes a deep breath. Enough rest.

“I… crashed the car… because….”

Fuck, this is _still_ impossible to get out. Those flashes. Their neon-orange swirl. Oh God oh _god, FUCK–_

Eliot lifts his arm away from his thigh. Taking his time, he brings it up, to offer another comforting caress.

Quentin molds his hand to his cheek. He kisses his palm, selfishly taking what he needs, before he squanders the gift. “It’s because I– I saw....” He exhales through his teeth. “The Monster. In your eyes.”

Eliot’s fingers twitch. He turns away from the window to stare up at the ceiling. His caramel-apple irises, full of sympathy and guilt, flick over to him a few times. Then they squeeze shut, and his bottom lip trembles. His chest, just barely, starts to tremble too.

An iron vice grips around Quentin’s heart all over again. He can count on one hand the number of times they’ve mentioned The Monster in conversation. Margo has never shied away from doing it. But him? He wants to bring it up about as much as Eliot does. And Eliot knows this. Until now, they’d found some comradery in that. Yes, he had told himself it was time to cross that line on this trip. It’s just…it's happening so much sooner than he’d planned.

Come on. He has to _fix_ this. He _has to_.

If it’s not making a difference, then rip the goddamn metaphorical band aid off. Or at least work up to it. Peel the edge away.

“I got really… um, scared, and I pressed too hard on the gas, and….”

The flat plane of the pedal had descended so easily. And then that drowning terror followed, from pushing the pedal down _much_ too far. It mixed in with the chaos already inside his head. Like Mentos shot into a shaken two-liter Diet Coke. There had been this distant awareness: he should be braking. He really should be braking. Which suddenly morphed into this martyr-like conviction: he must press the pedal down _more_. Until they were met with the unrelenting **_SLAM_** of the barrier. And the lurching free fall of going over.

“I’m really sorry. El, I’m so fucking sorry,” he hiccups, saltwater curving down his cheekbones.

Eliot’s Adam’s apple bobs, his eyes still closed. “I would never, ever, hold that against you.”

“I’ve, uh, got more to be sorry for. Than just that.”

Now Eliot’s eyes blaze open. He glares at him. With an expression that threatens, lovingly, that if he doesn’t shut up about being sorry, he’s going to make him. Sardonic, with an edge of steel. “Do we need a rewind of ten minutes ago? Didn’t we just establish–”

“No, listen, okay? You asked about losing time, right? And I freaked out about that too, but I didn’t explain, because I, well– ’Cause you teleported us here. I think.”

Whatever El had been expecting, it wasn’t that. But he’s also… far less shocked than Quentin expected. He’s not saying anything at all. 

“Or, not, like _teleported_ -teleported. You didn’t do a spell or use a magical object or anything.” Quentin grips the arm of the couch so hard, his knuckles ache. “But you wanted us here. You wished we were here, remember? And then we just… were. And that’s. That’s what happened in the shower too. I think you wanted to be in there. So you just… popped in.”

Eliot’s eyes are searching his face. Other than that, he’s still keeping his thoughts entirely to himself, giving nothing away. His expression is so goddamn neutral, they might as well be negotiating a fae truce in Whitespire.

“How’s…that possible?” he eventually says. “How could I’ve just, just… manifested Traveler powers like that?”

“Not. Not. Traveler. It’d be– It’s possible if… if….”

Cold sweat breaks out on his forehead.

( _Survive. Protect his body. Survive. Protect his body. Survive. Protect_ –)

Grunting, Eliot starts to get up. That jars Quentin out of it long enough to start making some vague, protesting noises. Loudly. All of which Eliot ignores. While he groans a few more times, he swings his legs around to sit up straight. He gathers him into his arms again, so they’re chest to back. Only after his gentle, strong hands rest upon him, caging him, does Quentin realize he’s shaking too.

Isn’t _he_ supposed to be keeping them warm? He can’t make his hands cast. Can’t even think of one lousy first-year spell. But his lungs fill with rosemary and mint. And underneath, the distinct musk of Eliot’s skin. No sickly-sweet candy, or blood, or cheese dust, or the harsh stain of tequila.

Eliot places a kiss on the top of his hair. He feels his chapped lips press into his scalp. “Take your time. It’s… just us here, yeah? We’ve. We’ve got all the time in the world. Breathe with me, Q. Come on, breathe.”

His voice is almost cracking. Like he’s lying. But, no. Quentin’s stupid, dumb brain is lying, remember? It’s just them here. It is just them. Just them.

He does as he’s told. He feels the little shifts in Eliot’s muscles. He listens to the expansion, the contraction, every movement that brushes them together. Their blood pumping in rhythm. The brief puffs of air against his scalp. Right in time with his own cold exhales, drifting along Eliot’s forearms.

He thinks of the day he came back to life. The day he looked at Eliot, at those eyes. And saw, for the first time in ages, that it was just him in there.

“I think you’ve… got some leftover Monster powers,” Quentin finally admits.

The words are almost lost as the waves pound the shore outside. The sand of the coastline is truly soaked through now. The water’s not draining away like it’s supposed to.

“That’d–” Eliot sighs, the breath grazing Quentin’s ear this time. “That’d explain some things, actually. Shit. No. No wonder– No wonder I scared the shit out of you.” He pulls away, putting a hand on his shoulder as he leans around to catch his eye. “Did I do anything else?” he asks.

He must have suspected it too. For once, Eliot’s bypassing denial. But he’s heading straight into his other classic routine: shouldering responsibility, before they suss out who it really belongs to.

Quentin tries to defend him by saying, “I don’t think you really knew–”

“ _Did_ I do anything else?”

“Some, uh, object manifestation, I think,” he says, flinching. “Your cellphone just, like, appeared in your hand.” He avoids Eliot’s gaze, but the resulting stare is so relentless that Quentin eventually confesses, “You… also controlled my body for a bit. I couldn’t move. And you tried to make me drink the bone-repair potion first.”

“Fuck.”

Quentin pries himself loose. He turns, situating his legs, and cradles Eliot’s face in his hands. He sees, all over again, the way El has let his beard grow too wild. The dusky pointillism of each little hair. The dark, indigo circles that tattoo the spaces around his eyes. The deep fissures of worry that have been carved around them.

A lifetime ago, the first time Quentin saw him without his eyeliner, he felt like something was missing. And he thought he’d _found_ something, too.

Oh the people they were, without their masks.

“You didn’t know you were doing it,” he tells him. “You were in a shit-ton of pain, El. And even _while_ you were in a shit-ton of pain, you did it because you were only thinking about me. My safety. My wellbeing.”

“But you didn’t tell me that was okay,” Eliot says, grabbing his wrists. “I did that without your permission, without your consent, and–”

“And you didn’t know what you were doing, and it was out of selflessness,” Quentin repeats. Some minor self-hatred festers in his chest for what he’s about to say next. He forces the words out anyway, because his dumbass, very tired brain is wrong. And Eliot needs to hear these words too. “Even if it… if it triggered me a little. It’s not like how it was with The Monster. It’s _not_. I realized that real quick.”

Eliot’s eyes go blank on a reflex. He retorts defensively, “Well, I don’t remember how it was wit–”

“ _Don’t_ say you don’t remember,” Quentin whispers.

Eliot scoffs, but doesn’t rebuke him. Stubborn to a fault, he dodges around the moment with more questions instead. “But how? If I– If I don’t even _know_ I’m doing it, then how the fuck _am_ I getting away with doing all these things?” His eyes start skittering around the room. They land on empty air, right over Quentin’s shoulder.

Okay, fine. If Eliot is retreating right back into lying and denial, Quentin will play along for now. They’ll build up to it later. He had actually already thought of an answer, before he’d climbed into the shower.

“In the castle,” he explains, dropping his arms, “when Ora was leading me through the halls, getting ready to introduce me, she said ‘it simply wants.’ That’s my theory. _You_ wanted to do whatever you could to get us to a safe place. You wanted to take care of me. So you did. You didn’t hurt me. You helped me.”

Instead of relaxing, or showing any kind of relief, Eliot’s face just becomes fucking miserable. He pulls completely away, sliding on his ass to the far end of the couch to hug his knees. The low lighting accentuates every naked, scabbing scrape and bruise along his back. The movement looks entirely too painful for Quentin’s liking, and he almost goes after him.

If El needs space, though…. If he needs to breathe and process, on his own time, then Quentin will give that to him. Even if it looks like he’s carrying the weight of the world. Some fights aren’t Quentin’s to win.

But then Eliot blips right back over. The couch dips under the sudden weight. Their bodies thud against each other.

“Shit!”

Eliot’s the only one who’s really surprised. Quentin learned the hard way how to cope with Eliot’s body randomly appearing next to him.

“What the fuck,” Eliot gasps. “Fuck! Fuck!” He tries scrambling away, but his limbs don’t have enough strength for that, no matter how much adrenaline he’s burning. His arm muscles give out, and he falls flat on his back.

Quentin’s cheeks blush red from the view. He can’t help it. Not after the spark they’d lit in the shower. These days, despite everything, there is nothing about Eliot that’s not worth staring at. Not after all that time Quentin spent, believing he’d never be with him again. Both in this life, and at the end of his last one. And the one before that.

He tries to shake these fuzzy, sluggish thoughts away. Enough gawking. Privacy. That is still important.

Although, looking away might be worse than El catching him staring, right now. He doesn’t want him to think he’s scared, or embarrassed, or full of pity.

Going over and helping might just wind up crowding him, so that’s out of the question too. Penning him in might make things worse. Quentin is not going to touch him unless he wants him to. Or, well, unless he _communicates_ that he wants him to. 

Not with Monster Powers though. With words.

Or actions? Actions that he… “wants” to do…? But _not_ actions that Eliot does… _without_ wanting to? Or, uh…

Oh boy. Thinking about this is gonna be harder than he… thought.

Apparently, Eliot still wants to be close to him, more than he wants his space. At least, if these bursts of teleporting are anything to go by. That might not be the healthiest sign of things right now. But another part of Quentin, his lizard brain maybe, gets some tiny satisfaction out of the idea. And that’s probably what’s keeping his own hysteria and flashbacks in check. Whatever the case, in the end, he is sure: the body in front of him wants to be close, not because it’s thinking of him as a plaything, or because it demands to be entertained. It’s close because Eliot knows Quentin loves him. As much as he struggles with letting himself accept it, he still wants it.

“Can I help you up?” Quentin says, offering that love like heat to frostbite.

Eliot’s chest heaves, but he does nod, despite his gritted teeth. Once they get him sitting upright again, he presses his palms to his eyes. He mumbles between his hands, “This’s so royally fucked up.”

Excusably still exhausted out of his skull, Quentin offers, “Maybe… only a little?”

“And how’s that?” Eliot drops his hands and shoots him a dark look.

“Well.” He gives a half shrug, looking down. “It’s just like… a, a bit of… extra sauce in your taco, right?”

“I’m sorry, _what_?”

“So, like, you’ve already got _your_ magic from the ambient. Which is the shell. And inside is, like the, um, the Physical Kid lettuce and the telekinesis meat and… Monster Powers are, just, you know, giving you more of a kick.”

“If you’re trying to say it’s making my magic extra spicy–” Eliot growls.

“Why not?” Quentin’s pitch goes way too high, but he’s too far gone to stop now. “You’re still moving things with your mind. Now it’s just, uh, moving your… whole body too, whenever you want. And objects. Instantly, through time and space, like the sexiest Doctor ever, sans TARDIS, and– Okay, never mind, rambling. Point is, when you get down to it, it’s the exact _opposite_ of what you had to deal with, right? While you were… you know.”

Eliot’s jaw only clenches harder. “No, it’s not.”

Quentin shoves away all the _mayday! mayday!_ alarm bells going off in his head. “Right, no, yeah. Of course.” He scrubs a hand over his eyes, fighting the urge to crawl under a rock and hide. “I just meant, all the power is in your hands now. Or, it will be, if you wanna learn how to control it.” Quentin doesn’t entirely believe that himself. But there has to be a positive spin here. Maybe there’s some poetic justice behind this whole thing? That’s all he’s got so far. It’s the only idea that will keep him sane, and he’s running with it. “You have the power to go anywhere. Do almost anything. If anyone deserves that, after what you went through, it’s you.”

“No. No no NO!” Eliot shouts. “I could hurt someone! _Kill_ someone! Say Todd pisses me off one day and I imagine his head exploding because I _want_ it to?”

Q snorts in genuine disbelief. “You’d never really want that.”

“Fine! But we don’t know how far this goes.”

Quentin leans back on both his hands, considering. “You’re also a bit of an expert on denying yourself the things you really want, El,” he says bluntly.

“Um, fuck you.”

“Fuck me yourself, coward.”

Eliot scowls. “You just stole that from–”

“And you’re bickering so you don’t have to admit I’m right.”

Quentin has no idea where all this is coming from. He feels chalk full of one of those insane impulses for manic destruction. Like, wondering what would happen if, hypothetically, he chucked a lit stick of dynamite into a liquor store. He’s probably going to start panic-crying in about point-five seconds. Or maybe he’ll just bust out some finger guns. Who the fuck knows.

“Rrrrrgh.” Eliot swivels away, looking as though he’s about to try and get up again. “Why're you so fucking calm about this?”

Ah, so they’ve moved on to the Brutal Honesty segment of today’s broadcast.

“Force of habit,” Quentin says.

A large ocean wave crests, hitting some big boulders half embedded in the sand. They both turn their heads at the sound. Eliot in alarm, Quentin with the same stoic calm.

Eliot quietly says, “I hate that,” in lieu of an apology, after he turns back.

Giving in to his brat tendencies a little more, instead of appreciating Eliot’s consideration, Quentin turns his body away. Facing forward, he lets his head fall back on the edge couch, and pillows it with his hands. That crick in his neck is back, from the car. The lights on the ceiling are looking fuzzy around the edges. “What can I say? It’s the truth.”

“You shouldn’t want anything to do with me,” El mutters. “You should be calling someone right now. Begging them to get you out of here, as fast as fucking possible. We don’t know when it’ll go away, we don’t know what caused it–”

“Don’t we?” he interjects.

With a tick of his jaw, Eliot looks back out at the ocean again. “No, we don’t.”

Fuck it. Fuck it fuck it fuck it. Eliot’s stubbornness is only matched by Margo’s… and Quentin’s. They’re supposed to be _talking_.

“Then I’ll lay it out for you. Ever since you brought me back, your magic’s been the same as always. Nothing out of the ordinary. All of a sudden – thanks to a really bad memory, I’m guessing? – you stop getting enough sleep. You stop getting any sleep at all. El, your brain is literally not functioning the way it’s supposed to. Maybe that unlocked something. Whatever it was I saw in the car. And then, well, shit. The crash might’ve just up an' jostled the whole thing free.”

A cigarette appears in Eliot’s fingers, already lit.

“Goddamnit!” Eliot starts looking around the room. An ashtray, possibly the very one from Kady’s patio all the way back in New York, clatters onto the coffee table a second later. He stares at it, furious. Caught between the vindictive urge to either stub the cigarette out, or to keep it lit, now that the ashtray has appeared. “Are we even allowed to smoke here?” he deflects.

“If you’re not going to, I will,” Quentin says, sighing. After Eliot, begrudgingly, offers it up, he takes a long drag. A quick tut keeps all the smoke from drifting away and setting off any smoke alarms. It gathers into a swirling ball in the air, rotating and revolving like a planet. An old trick Quentin definitely did not steal from Penny, while they were roommates. He returns the cigarette. Eliot will let himself have some now, since he’s done it first. They pass it back and forth in silence for a beat. Better to let some of the tension dissipate.

Or not. Dynamite. Liquor store.

While Quentin in the middle of handing over the cigarette, he says, “You know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think it’s time you told me _exactly_ why you haven’t been sleeping.”

Of course Eliot tenses up again. Of course he frowns, and clenches his fists, and even curls his toes… and pops out of existence entirely, taking the cigarette with him. Quentin blows the last of the smoke out of his lungs. God, he is such an idiot. Such a _tired_ idiot.

Eliot’s absence lasts longer than a few seconds. Quentin’s weary, patient façade falls, and he looks all around the room, and even outside. For some sign, any sign at all, that he'll come back. He starts a count in his head, and he keeps counting. When he gets to one thousand and five, he gets up to check the rest of the rooms, pushing through the burn in his aching muscles as he limps along.

The bathroom’s empty. He slips on his dry, wrinkled shirt and jeans. He holds Eliot’s clothes close to his chest like a mourning widow as he treks down the hall. There’s no sign of him in the bedroom, its closet, or the study. Quentin even checks the basement, although he feels just as foolish clambering down the stairs as he does coming back up them, once that search, too, yields no result.

Returning on shaky legs to the living room, the ball of smoke is the only thing waiting for him. It’s not the worst company he’s ever had. Especially when he’s about five minutes from curling up into a guilt-ridden, sobbing depression wreck on the floor.

Thankfully, the smoke only has to keep up the pretense a bit longer. Eliot does come back, tumbling onto the carpet by the front door. Quentin practically collapses to his knees, and crawls over to him in relief. Eliot’s slacks, vest, shirt, and shoes all tumble out of his arms as he goes. 

Gasping, his vision swimming, he checks Eliot’s body all over again. Some of the band aids are stained with blood from fresh pressure, but there are no new bruises or cuts. His sliced arm is intact. The bandage is only slightly dampened. His chest is normal, his legs are normal, that obstinate tick in his jaw is very fucking normal. And his limbs are warm, as though he’s been under a blanket.

Some of his panic fades, like snowmelt hit by a few weak rays of spring sunlight. While Eliot’s been busy blatantly avoiding Quentin’s suggestion, at least he’s been safe.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“About where you went? Or why you left?” Quentin says, not without a little hurt snark.

“What the fuck do you think?!”

He can see the regret in Eliot’s eyes after. It keeps the harsh question from stinging too much. He doesn’t respond, except to look at him, with all the bone-tired, tried-and-true love in his body.

Seeing this, a fresh wave of stress rolls through Eliot’s shoulders. He jerks his head away, trying to find something around the room to keep his attention busy. He flinches at something by the kitchen sink, but doesn’t stop staring at it, whatever it is. The next second, they’ve Apparated back onto the couch. The telltale orange flash fades in Eliot’s eyes. He looks about ready to scream his head off, after he realizes he’s done it again. And, worse, that it’s getting easier. Quentin just… surrenders. Like always. He leans against the back of the couch, and dramatically lets his head become dead weight. There’s a quiet thump as it lands on the cushion. He regrets the action in an instant, his vertigo rearing up and his stomach churning, as he gazes up at the lights on the ceiling. If he wasn’t concussed, he’d definitely pass out right now.

Or maybe not. Maybe that “don’t pass out” order Eliot gave him on the hill is still in effect.

( _"_ _It is not a good morning, America."_ )

He swallows around the awkward angle. It’s hard to get the words out, but he manages. “If you talk to me about it, we can go to sleep,” he offers, wry. Another bribe, like his ripped jeans.

“I can’t,” says Eliot. Out of the corner of his eye, Quentin sees him snag a blue pillow, squeezing it around his middle for comfort.

Quentin’s attention flickers back over to Eliot’s clothes for a second, but he decides against them. “Why not?”

“You know how it is,” Eliot says testily. Something makes him flinch again, as though he’s been slapped upside the head. He abruptly buries his face in the pillow. His wet curls fall around the blue fabric, like sea grass swaying with the tide.

Quentin’s throat closes up. Teddy used to do that too, all the time. Like the pillow was a hole in the ground, and he was the obstinate ostrich. He always thought his son got the habit from one of the kids in the village. It’s such a vicious stab of déjà vu, seeing it now.

( _Because sometimes, it feels like the memories of their beautiful, fantastic, perfect child are as taboo as The Monster is._ )

“I do?” Quentin prompts, playing dumb, just like he used to do with Teddy.

“Yes,” Eliot grunts, muffled. He shifts his shoulders, tilting his head so his voice can be heard. “Talking about hard shit is… is… like there’s this… a… force. A wall. An invisible hand. All my damage. It’s… physically _gripping_ my words. Holding back everything I want to say. But…” Eliot shakes his head against the fabric. “I shouldn’t even _want_ to say it anyway.”

“Because you think I’ll be upset?”

“Because I need to _deal_ with it. On my own. And I need to, fucking, _shield_ you from it.”

“You can’t,” he says simply. He casts a quick spell to vanish the ball of smoke. Then he turns his head to the side, and waits.

Sure enough, Eliot twists his face sideways to look at him in disbelief. His gaze darts off to stare at the empty air again, but then he forces himself to meet his eyes. Protests and rebuttals are rumbling in his chest.

Before any of them get out, Quentin continues, “Here’s the thing: I’d say I feature in at least half– Okay, two-thirds– At least seven-tenths of those Monster memories you’ve _definitely_ got inside your head. And on the one hand? Yeah, I get why you might not want me to be in the same room, when a memory is playing out in there.”

Eliot buries his head back in the pillow, instead of answering.

Quentin finally does what he never did with Teddy. He reaches out, snags the pillow, and tugs it out of Eliot’s grip. _Making_ him look. “But guess what, El. I’m also pretty much the only one who _was_ there with you.”

“No, you weren’t.”

It comes out petulantly. Almost vitriolic. But… is that it? His official “I remember” admission? Quentin will take what he can get.

“Fine,” he says, “The Monster took Margo and Josh off to Fillory. Once _._ But _me_ and The Monster? I had–”

He stops. He feels it too. That all-too-familiar feeling Eliot’s talking about. Wrapping itself around his brain. Around his throat. Paralyzing his vocal chords, like it’s diffusing straight in from his medulla. Saying _don’t don’t don’t, you can’t, you can’t, it’s not allowed, talking about it’s weak, you’re strong, you can handle it alone, don’t, it’s over, it’s not allowed, don’t don’t don’t, just, just push it down, push it away, you can handle it, it’s fine._

So he kicks the urge to keep silent off a mental cliff, before it gets any stronger. If Eliot’s going to open up to him at all, the least Quentin can do is go first.

“I had months with it. I had to sink a dead body with rocks. I had to watch… what happened to that kid, and what, what it did, to that thing, at that temple in Greece. And then, right after, we just… sat down over that door, and just, talked. Like we were best fucking friends at recess. But it was _your_ head on my shoulder. Your voice in my ear. And… and I had to–”

( _Okay,_ maybe _he can only hold back that urge to repress everything for a little while._ )

“Anyway,” he says, clearing his throat, “there’s so much more. And if you remember… all that, like I do? Then I _am_ there. Right alongside you. In every memory. Just with a different point of view.”

He takes Eliot’s hand. It’s the first time he’s talked about his solo-run with The Monster. The first time he’s openly admitted any of it. To anyone. Eight months in the orbit of a black hole, but nobody asked how he felt about it, or what it’d been like. Not Julia, Margo, Alice, or Josh. If Penny-23 ever saw something, whenever his wards might've slipped, he never gave any sign. 

All the things he witnessed. All the things he did. With The Monster. For The Monster.

His chest loosens just a hair, now that he’s acknowledged this aloud. Something – maybe that fluttering confidence from before, or maybe just sheer relief – is trying to build a nest in his heart again.

Why is it so crazy, El, to try and work through this shit together? They're long overdue for it. Meeting these memories at least tangentially head on isn’t impossible. Quentin’s had enough of limping and insisting it’s sprinting.

He _is_ someone who knows what it was like. Someone who was just as much of a hostage as Eliot had once been. Whether they’re a one-off, or here to stay, the Monster Powers started because of the memories, right? So that’s where they’ll start too. Either on the road to keeping them, or getting rid of them. No matter what, they’ll do it together. They do all their best work together. They do all their best living together.

 _(Remember, Eliot? Remember how well we live together?_ )

“So you _can_ talk with me about it," he concludes fiercely. "I’ll understand. I’ll understand it all.”

But Eliot pulls his hand out of his grip.

“Okay, maybe not all of it,” Quentin backtracks, trying to keep the hurt out of his voice. He finds a button on his shirt sleeve and twists it around, plucking the sewn strings. “Maybe you can talk to Julia a bit too.”

“Julia didn’t–”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Eliot hangs his head.

Quentin leans in, cupping his cheek and pressing their foreheads together. “Didn’t what?”

A wave outside crests, and breaks, in time with a single tear, trickling down his nose and onto Quentin’s top lip. “Didn’t hurt you.”

“Neither did yo–”

“Julia doesn’t remember flicking her fingers, and then _feeling_ the bones snap in your arm and hearing you scream,” Eliot grinds out. “Julia doesn’t remember squeezing your neck, with both hands. Feeling your throat shake, and then bend _in_ when The Monster squeezed harder. She doesn't know all the reasons why you said you were okay with it breaking your bones and strangling you. The reasons why you were too tired to care anymore.”

All of the air floods out of Quentin’s lungs. He has to let this stark fact hang in the air between them. A thrum of reflexive fight-or-flight is washing through his veins. A horrible, uncomfortable heat, flushing from head to toe. He’s stuck. His own memory is playing out – ( _the panicked urge to COUGH with all his strength overpowered by two adamantine thumbs, the dull shine on Eliot’s sweaty face and oily curls, the bloodshot mockery in Eliot’s unblinking eyes as it called him cute, hot fetid breath ghosting across his lips, his jugular pounding harder as his vision got spotty, then darker and darker, relishing the FURY in his veins because this was the second real emotion he’d felt in days, after that joyous relief in the park) –_ but, once again, he’s being equally swept under the mantra that fed his sanity that year.

Survive. Protect.

Because he’s _alive_ in there.

Quentin has to swallow a couple of times. Reminding himself there aren’t hands wrapped around his throat. “That wasn’t you. I know it wasn’t you.”

Eliot groans, “Then why do _I_ remember it? Why do I _see_ it?”

“I… I don’t know.”

The hand that Quentin'd held earlier flexes between them. Eliot watches himself curl his fingers in and out, over and over. Like he’s proving to himself he still can. “It, it’s like, like when someone steals your phone. And you don’t even know who's got it. Like, you feel vulnerable, and, and violated, you know? And whoever has your phone pairs it up with, like, a Go-Pro or something, and then records a thousand videos. But, after you get your phone back, you can’t delete them, and then suddenly you’re chained to a chair in an IMAX theater at top volume. While the smallest thing makes the videos play out in front of you, over and over, in fucking 4-D, and–”

Eliot flinches again. He’s fever hot. Clammy sweat breaks out, seeping into Quentin’s scalp.

Deep breaths. Deep. Breaths.

Of course Quentin doesn’t know what to say. He has no idea at all. What the fuck _can_ he say? Dumbass, not-the-sharpest-tool-in-the-shed Quentin Coldwater, has got nothing. Mend _that_ , asshat.

Well. There is… at least one thing he can say. One immutable thing. It’s tiny. It has all the potential of a grain of sand lodged inside an oyster. A truth he’s known longer than he’s been alive.

Pushing Eliot back a few inches, he says, “Look at me.”

He does. Oh, God, but it hurts to see. His pupils search Quentin’s like he’s begging to be released and kept tethered here all at once. Wetness shines along his eyes, pooling, but not enough to overflow into more tears. He gasps, once, then his lips press together and tremble. As he forces his head to stay up. As his eyebrows draw together, and relax, and draw together, in spasms.

He’s bracing for impact. Bracing for some platitude he expects Quentin to provide. A platitude which he also expects not to help in the slightest.

So out comes a signature Coldwater grimace-smile, with open, steady eyes. He casts a few tuts. The abandoned pile of clothes float throughs the air, each piece folding neatly as it goes. The pile settles onto Eliot’s lap, socks and loafers on top.

“You’re not The Monster–”

A pained, quiet scoff from Eliot tries to cut him off. He doesn’t let Eliot look away.

“– and you are not _a_ monster.”

Eliot makes a wounded noise.

“You. Are Not. A monster. You didn’t enjoy what happened to me any more than I did.”

“I know–”

“Then say it for me. Fight that little voice in your head that–”

The agonizing sound he chokes out this time is even worse.

Fuck. Shit. _Fuck_. He’s pushed too far.

“The little voice in my head!” Eliot repeats. It’s almost a laugh. “Please, please tell me you’re joking.”

Quentin runs a hand through his hair, tugging on the wet strands. He tries to use the pain, to ground himself. Or to punish himself; might as fucking well. “I didn’t mean to upset you, I was trying to– You never said whether it spoke to you, while you were in the Hap– I just meant–”

“It didn’t, Q.” Eliot's chest is shaking. That manic laugh is nearly bubbling out.

“I… I feel like I’m walking through a minefield here. I’m sorry, okay? I just, I know you. And I know how much you care– You care so fucking much, it’s breaks my fucking heart sometimes and– And I love that about you, but I also know how guilty you’re feeling right now because you care. But you need to push back. Fight against that guilt, El. Or, not fight, but, like, process it, work through it. Do _something_ besides _agree_ with it. Yeah, your body… did things. Entirely out of your control, but it did them. And your brain recorded things. That something else was doing, but the nerves still made the memories. Sure. All true. But, through all that, it wasn’t _you_. _You_ aren’t responsible.”

Eliot shoves the clothes aside. “That’s not what the little voice says!” he cries, leering at the empty air.

Quentin swallows past the lump in his throat. “How come you get to tell me tonight wasn’t my fault, but I can’t do the same for you? How is that fair?”

“Because Justice is out of fucking order these days, sunshine.” There’s abruptly a glass tumbler in Eliot’s hand. Scotch, judging by the color. Before Q can even start to worry about whether it’s a good idea, he’s already swallowing it in three gulps. The glass refills without a single tut being cast. “Because the laundry list of how fucked up I am these days stretches between here and Fillory, and it’s only getting longer.”

“You think I don’t love how fucked up you are?” Quentin says quietly.

“I know you’d be terrified if I told you.”

Oh _fuck_ him.

Quentin can pace, or he can curl up. He chooses pacing. He gets to his feet, pushing through the pain, and he starts zigzagging in front of the fireplace, half a dozen times and counting. He goads, “Oh, well, guess you’re casting a probability spell behind your back? That’s great. Great to hear. Being that certain of the future must be such a gift.” He flicks his wrist, and the fire lights in the grate. Hot blue flames _whumf_ higher than he means them to, but he’s not going to lower the gas. “Please, tell me what else I’m gonna do. Can’t wait to see how right you are.”

“I’m trying to protect you,” Eliot says coldly, finally looking at him. “Doesn’t matter if you believe in me. Doesn’t matter if you love me. It’s about keeping you out of the blast rad–”

Quentin goes for him. He vaults practically on top of Eliot, looming over, almost bullying him into the back of the couch. His nails sink into the cloth. The empty glass in Eliot’s hands falls to the floor.

“My love for you is everything,” he snarls. “It’s the air in my fucking lungs, it’s the beat in my fucking heart, Eliot Waugh. I have loved you until it’s killed me. And I’ll do it again if I have to. Now you look me in the fucking eye, and tell me how fucked up you _think_ you are, and you fucking _watch me_ love you anyway.”

All is silence, except for their breathing and the moonlit ocean. Eliot’s nostrils flare. He shivers. His eyes hold Quentin’s stare. Testing him. Or memorizing him one last time. He wraps his hand around one of Quentin’s. His fingers curl around his palm, clenching it. Then his eyes slide to the side, full of fear, and Eliot swallows, as he stares at nothing.

“The Monster,” he says.

Maybe he’s about to be sick. Maybe he’ll blip away any second. Or blast Quentin through the air, right through the glass wall at his back.

Don’t break. Stay strong. Stay here.

“The Monster,” Q also says, his voice soft and hard. He nods once.

More sharp breaths. Quick darting glances, between Quentin’s face and the air over his shoulder. “The Monster isn’t all gone. It’s there. In my head.”

“Okay. Tell me more, El.”

“I _hear_ it, Q. It’s in my head.”

“Like, when you dream? When you remember?”

“No. My dreams’re– No. There’s this door that I’ve been seeing. The door that I had to get through, for peaches and plums. It’s been there, in the corner of my eye, for days. And today, something’s started banging on the door, and I’m hearing a voice that sounds like me saying ‘let me out’ and, and I have no idea what to do. It’s– The Monster is. In. My. Head. And I don’t know what to do.”

Oh.

That’s. That’s.

Bad.

That’s… probably… infinitely worse than anything he could’ve imagined. Which might mean… there’s no weight to that poetic justice bullshit he came up with earlier.

Which might mean that, everything that happened, in the Mirror World? Was all for nothing. And he… he fucking… _died,_ for nothing.

His free arm drops, and he sits back on Eliot’s legs. He feels the denim of his jeans viciously pinch his waist. Eliot still has a hold of his hand, clinging to it. He hasn’t reached the point where he wants pry himself away yet. He is… probably about to. He’s almost going cross-eyed, and that ringing in his ears is only getting louder. His throat is so dry.

Smart Quentin would let doubt have a seat at the table. Smart Quentin would offer dozens of other theories, alphabetically, if someone asked him to. He would start researching the Seam, and call Julia to see if she’s been experiencing anything similar, and he'd use the, fucking, Scientific Method, or some shit like it, until he could say for certain whether it was true.

Instead, his eyes just start leaking again. “Um. Eliot. Do. Do you want to hold me right now?” he says, blinking fast, as his vision blurs and his chest constricts.

Eliot seems to weigh several answers, unsure of the right one. He settles on, “Always, but why?”

Quentin gasps as he looks up at the ceiling, spit almost flying out as he tries to breathe through his teeth.

( _I died for nothing? I DIED. For NOTHING?)_

His head feels like it’s going to explode. Pressure’s building up in every corner of his brain, behind his eyes, inside his ears. Every bruise and cut, both the real and the phantom, flares up along his skin.

He has to.

Has to stop.

Stop thinking.

Stop thinking that way.

“’Cause, um, I really want to hold _you_ right now," he keens, "and I wanted to check in first?”

Without any hesitation, Eliot goes to hug him. Their weighted fleece blanket, from their bedroom, is also instantly falling around Quentin’s shoulders. Eliot blinks, clearly thinking twice about accepting it. He gathers its corners anyway, and uses them to pull him closer - not without some begrudging gratitude for its appearance.

As he settles into the crook of Eliot's neck, Quentin sucks air into every spare inch of his lungs. He lets it all out. Every atom of carbon dioxide he can squeeze from his chest, he expels. He shivers and shivers and shivers. He wriggles his arms between Eliot’s ribs and the couch, until he can get a good grip on hiss shoulder blades. They both hiss, as their hold on each other tightens, but neither of them relent.

The blanket smells like them. That, and a waft of coffee, from a splash he’d spilled this morning, when Eliot jumped him to shuck his jeans off.

This isn’t pressure, it’s weight. A gentle constant. Heavy. So heavy.

Eliot’s skin is beneath him, and the ghost of his pulse is thumping against Quentin’s nose. Like the tiniest earthquake, shaking things just a fraction out of place. His beard scrapes across the scabbing cut on his forehead.

It’s _not_ “just them here,” is it?

Beneath that skin, behind that pulse, is their unrelenting nightmare.

But.

If Eliot doesn’t know what to do, then…

Quentin starts to think again. Sludgy thoughts, yes, but they’re there.

“You. You had to… step through. The door. In order to get through to me. Right?”

“Yeah. Sort of.”

“What happens if The Monster goes through the door?”

Another shiver. Did he do that? Did Eliot?

“Nevermind,” Quentin whispers.

( _It.)_

_(It wasn't.)_

_(Wasn't for nothing.)_

_(Broken brain. Broken brain. How do we fix the broken brain?)_

He focuses on Eliot’s pulse. _Thud. Thud. Thud._ Because it’s Eliot’s heart making it. Eliot’s brain commanding it. “So, what do you want to do about it?”

Eliot’s hold on him loosens. “What do _I_ want to do?”

“Yeah.” He snuggles into the crook of his willowy neck some more. “It’s your body. It’s happening to you, so. What do you wanna do?”

Strong winds from the shore rush down the street outside. The flames in the fireplace flutter from the vacuum inside the chimney. Eliot is definitely the one who shivers this time.

“I. I hadn’t really thought about it that way. Not to sound like a broken record, but: shouldn’t we lock me up? You know, protect everyone else? At least until we figure out what to do with me?”

Quentin adamantly shakes his head against Eliot’s shoulder. He feels the blanket slip a bit. “I thought _my_ broken record impression was spot on. You really want an encore?”

No answer. Eliot just straightens the blanket with his mind. Avoiding any answer is safer, as always. Better that, than choosing the wrong one. 

“I’ll admit, that’s what I thought, at first,” Quentin says. “Tonight. When I saw your eyes. But then I realized… I wanna protect you from. From them, most of the time. Not just The Library or Brakebills or the Old Gods. They might wanna banish you, or kill you, or study you, or use you or something. You know some of 'em would. But I also mean... our, our friends. Which is so fucked up of me. I know that, I do, but. I will never forget that I used to be like them, trying to minimize The Monster… going nuclear or whatever. When all I had was this vague hope you were in there. And then, after it told me you were dead? I did it even more.”

( _His chest had hollowed out. Caved in. Shattered. With every drop of blood that fell from the living-stone. He’d kept telling himself, the more he lifelessly repeated his certainty about Eliot’s death, to Alice, to Julia, that he’d believe it_ this _time._ )

He bites his lip. “But when you came through, and told me you were alive, and gave me my hope back? Everyone else was still ready to accept you being collateral damage. I had to remind them, over and over, that that was not acceptable, and it still didn’t change their minds. I won’t forget that, for a long, long time.” His jaw hardens. He places a kiss against Eliot’s collar bone, like a seal on a royal decree. “I am going to figure this out with you. It’s your body. Your mind. Your life. And if I have to stand between all those people, _and_ the Monster, and you? Then. Well. It’s like I said. I’m ready to do that again.”

He lets the promise hang in the air between them. A good, long moment passes.

To punctuate it all, he repeats, “So, what do _you_ want to do?”

Eliot’s voice is little more than a whisper. “What if it takes me over, and you don’t realize it? What if it tries to trick you, by pretending to be me?”

Quentin shakes his head again.

( _Pillow, ostrich._ )

( _Maybe Teddy got it from him too_.)

How can he put this? Pretending to be someone else was... something The Monster just... never did, not once. It was only ever itself, and it seemed to expect Quentin to do the same. It wasn’t a fan of deception, of any kind. Like there was some unspoken rule against such tricks. And breaking that rule was just asking for its wrath. Honestly, it only seemed to tolerate The Brian Game because of all the intricate spellwork on him at the time. Any other form of duplicity was downright annoying, frustrating, or enraging. Just look at what happened to that Enyalius-pretender. Or those pseudo-psychics, whose brains couldn’t handle some real mind-reading. Not to mention all that shit with Iris, and how Alice barely managed to help them lie their way out of it.

“I’ve been with you the longest,” he finally says. “And I was with The Monster the longest. I know both of you better than anyone else. I can tell you apart.”

He feels Eliot’s jaw shift, as he worries his bottom lip between his teeth. But the answer must settle something inside him. He rocks Quentin back and forth a little, pressing a kiss to his head in thanks. Until, of course, he slows, asking, “If I may... be allowed to catastrophize, for a bit?”

“You’re still not answering my question."

“Maybe this’ll help me decide.”

“If you say so,” Quentin sighs.

“How about, if the Monster does take me over? Either full blown Angellus Buffy season two, or even just part way, like when Alice was using you. Do we have anything that can… contain me? Niffins have boxes, and The Beast got tossed in the Clean Room.”

Quentin lets out another sigh, even heavier than the first. “Not unless you want me to niffin-out trying. Even if I did have that kind of magic on me, what’m I supposed to do? Incorporate-bond you to the floor? I don’t think magically chaining you down's gonna do any good. You can move things with your mind, and the Monster is a super-god or whatever.”

He feels Eliot’s jaw tighten against his temple. “Do we have _anything_ that’ll stop me?” he rephrases, sticking to the point. The question also sounds a little rhetorical, like he already knows the answer.

And Quentin can’t deny it. Their old plan technically did work, last time. “Margo’s axes,” he says dubiously. “But, El, you were– I don’t think we’d have to, like, stab you again. We got it out. I, _for sure_ , threw The Monster in the Seam. It went in. So it’s not all– It’s not all _here,_ in its entirety, like before. Otherwise, it wouldn’t _be_ behind the door. You’d already be possessed again if it was. So this time, maybe we just, uh, cut your hand to get it out, or something.”

“And then what? Cast an incorporate bond on a pickle jar, and take another trip to the Seam? You will have to pry _yourself_ out of my cold dead hands before I let that happen.”

“I don’t know, El,” Quentin can’t help but grumble. “I’m just spit-balling ‘cause you asked me to.”

“I know, I know-”

“And me suggesting the axes didn’t make them appear, just now. So I’m guessing you don’t want to try any of that.”

“Maybe I’m just… worried our beloved Destroyer would hunt us down, if they suddenly blipped out of her hands.”

Quentin really wants to grumble and gripe some more. It’s not like Margo _sleeps_ with them. She probably wouldn’t even know they were gone. More to the point, The Monster’s prone to body-hopping. The fact that it hasn’t gone anywhere yet – especially right after the crash, when Eliot was broken and bleeding out – is another mixed blessing. Yeah, okay, Murphy’s Law, sure. But it’s also (possibly) a sign that The Monster _can’t_ jump bodies. Either not right now, or not ever. And _that_ gives them a tiny edge. An edge they don’t need to drag anyone else in for, to take advantage of.

But he tries to take a step back. Tries to separate his fears from his logic. It’s harder than prying the party playlist out of Julia’s hands when she’s drunk, but he manages it.

He asks, “Do you want Margo to meet us somewhere? So she can help? Or, even, just to have her around? You know she’d want to. No matter what.”

Once he says this, shame starts pricking at his heart, with all the finesse of an amateur nurse trying to find a vein. He doesn’t have to protect Eliot from Margo; he knows better. Of all the people he can trust Eliot’s life with, Margo should always be at the top of the list. She’d annihilate anyone _else_ on that list, even him, if she had to.

It wouldn’t take a psychic to tell that, right now, they’re both wishing she was here. Eliot’s probably imagining all the things she might say, just like he is. Her fierce affection - disguised as vicious, barbed abuses - and how she’d bruise their eardrums with it, the second she laid eyes on them. He’s surprised she hasn’t appeared here, in the room, while they’ve been muddling through all this. Maybe Monster Powers fall short of actually summoning a real person. Time goes by, and there’s no sign of her.

He misses those moments, when they were right in the middle of being well and truly fucked, where Margo would start trading inside jokes with him. Those times where _someone_ was finally speaking his language. Where he could just _say_ what he meant, without having to translate or dumb it down for the others. And he misses those days where her knowledge of Fillory outmatched his. The way she’d think of something clever – bottling some of the Torrent, using the two-way mirror, her epic victory in the desert – that he didn’t even realize was an option. He’s been so stupid, thinking he can’t trust her with all this. Yeah, she hadn't been there, during their rushed assault on The Library. But she _was_ the one who'd had to stab her soulmate to save the world.

Eliot has his eyes closed now, and Quentin can see them darting back and forth beneath his eyelids. The lines on his forehead crease, and he lets go of Quentin to rub at the mottled scar above his hip. “No,” he finally answers.

“No?”

What is El thinking? The two of them are backed into a corner. There’s a ticking time/possession bomb in the room. The only person who’d diffused it with Quentin before would at least be able to, like, shout at him until he couldn’t hear the ticking anymore.

“I don’t think I want to solve this problem… the way she’d think it should be,” Eliot says.

Before Quentin can ask what that means, one by one, Eliot clothes himself in an entirely different set of clothes. A black and gold paisley shirt presses against Quentin’s cheek. He feels the brush of corduroy slacks through a hole in his jeans. There’s even the creak of leather, no doubt from a pair of brogues on his feet.

“And aside from that,” Eliot continues, “whether we need the axes in the end, or not, I don’t think I…. I don’t want her to _ever_ think she has to hurt me like that again. I don’t think she can take it. But she would force herself to anyway. And I can’t let her do that.”

Is this really what Eliot wants?

It feels like he is getting ready for something. He’s getting his armor back on.

“Okay,” Quentin says, trying to keep his unease out of his voice. Now that he’s finally managed to convince himself to let his guard down - only for El to raise the drawbridge back up again - he feels more adrift than ever. He almost wants to argue against this. If they don’t get Margo involved, she will come after them. No matter whether they stay here, or if Eliot decides to transport them somewhere else, to look for answers. Even if she has no idea of what happened tonight... if Margo gets radio silence from either of them for long enough? There’s no force on Earth that’ll stop her from tracking them down.

And then… who knows what he’ll do? If The Monster gets through the door... who knows who he’ll have to stand between?

So, thanks to his own idiocy, they’re still on their own against The Monster. Without any clues as to how they can get it out of Eliot this time, or how to stop it from possessing him. The second that door inside his mind opens, it’s all over. And without any means of stopping it from travel–

( _Peaches and plums._ )

( _Living-stone blood on your back._ )

No.

Except… what was it that Jules said? About how the–

No. No. FUCK NO.

Except.

“Q, I think I know what I want to do.”

He pulls away. He takes in the ensemble Eliot’s wearing. Maybe that armor idea wasn’t quite right. Eliot's black waistcoat is open, and there’s no tie synched around his neck. Two buttons are loose around the collar.

And Eliot’s taking him in too. Does he see his panic on his face? The tremble in every blink?

“What?” Quentin asks. He has to keep himself steady. If Eliot asks what’s wrong, he might not be able to lie about it.

Eliot pushes his curls behind one ear. “The best way to protect me from everything _is_ to find a way to lock me up.”

“No–”

Eliot dives in, kissing him. Quentin’s mouth starts kissing him back before his head can catch up. The kiss is chaste at first, reassuring and unhurried. When Eliot opens his mouth, drawing him in, sending butterflies swooping in his belly, it’s almost enough to make his words die in his throat. He knows just how to tilt his head. How to glide his fingers underneath his chin, how to say _I see your love for me, hear me out as I show mine for you_ with the corner of his smile, pressing the bow of his bottom lip just a little harder, so he can feel the dimples grow along his cheeks.

But Quentin has just enough stupidity left to break away, before he gets truly lost in it. Eliot is _wrong_. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about! He’s only saying this because he’s thinking of what he’s supposed to do, and not what he really wants.

Quentin refuses to let his love be manipulated into submission. Not when he already knows… not when he’s already thought of…

“Just hear me out, okay?” Eliot whispers against his lips, trying to pull him back in.

“I’m not gonna be your jailer,” Quentin rasps, pushing against his shoulders.

“Jailer?” Eliot frowns. He gets a thoughtful look on his face. “I’d rather think of myself as a shiny glove. And you’ll be making sure Thanos doesn’t use me for his rock collection.” The smug, empty smile that follows grates against Quentin’s brain, and it takes a few chunks off with it.

Quentin shakes his head, gritting his teeth. “Call it what you want. When you’ve basically vetoed the one way we know gets it out of you? I said I’d protect you, not– Not strip you of your freedom all over again.”

“It’s not like it’ll be permanent–”

He grabs his face. “You don’t know that. What if we never find another way to get it out of you? What if we have to spend the rest of our lives–”

Quentin chokes off the rest of his words. Eliot’s bloodshot eyes are shining. Begging.

Of course he’s terrified. Of course he’s imagined what this choice really means.

And, of course, it is what he really wants, deep down, isn’t it? Eliot wants to keep all the people they love safe, and all the people in the multiverse too. Genuinely. How could he not want to do the hardest thing he could ever do. Giving up his freedom all over again, this time willingly. Because his heart is so damn big.

Was this what it was like? When Eliot was faced with him saying he’d already gone and made that deal, to replace Ora?

He understands now. There’s no question. He would’ve used that damn god-killing bullet too.

In that case…

Fuck. There is no other way, is there?

He loosens his hold, and cups Eliot’s cheek. His thumb strokes along the rosy blush, as his own jaw sets in a determined line. "Okay. It won’t be permanent,” he concedes. “No matter what we do, or where we go, we will keep working on getting it out of you. I’ll promise you that, El, if you do the same.” He kisses him on the forehead, breathes, and leans back, to wait for his answer.

Blinking a few times, Eliot reads his expression. As soon as he says, “I promise,” his lips purse a little, as he stares at him some more. Then he says, almost to himself, “You’ve figured something out, haven’t you?”

Which prompts those former butterflies in Quentin’s stomach to morph into rattlesnakes.

“So, uh….” His eyes dart down to his hands, and he starts cracking his knuckles. “The simple fact is, we have no idea what’s keeping that door intact.” When he doesn’t go on, Eliot just nods. It takes another few seconds, but after he runs out of knuckles, he moves on to picking out the dirt from beneath his fingernails. “We don’t know what might make the door stronger, or weaker. And we have to sleep eventually. And most prisons work because there’s more than just the guards to keep the inmates from escaping. So. So even if it, uh. Takes you over again. And I have to, um. To stay with The Monster. Again. Or, or not. Maybe we’ll figure it out before that, and we work through all our memories and all our shit, and we somehow toss The Monster back in Mount Doom without it ever getting free. Whatever. Either way, just to be safe, we could…. We should….”

Eliot takes his hand. He laces their fingers together. Still afraid. But trusting him, knowing him, with his whole heart. “Tell me.”

Quentin looks at him. He goes to button the last two buttons on Eliot’s shirt. Then he closes his eyes.

“I think you need to take us back to Castle Blackspire."

Eliot blinks. "I was thinking the same thing."


	5. Eliot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that is an updated chapter count you see before you. Two months and almost 20k words later, I've sure got some nerve, huh? Still, I can't tell you how thankful I am, that you've stuck around for this long, waiting and waiting. I actually had to stop myself, at the end of this chapter. I was ready to keep going, of all things. But it ends right where it has to, and I hope you'll have enough to chew on, while I start the next chapter as soon as I can. Thank you for your kudos, your comments, your time. Each and every one is a true treasure. They help infinitely. Lots of love, my friend.
> 
> Here we go, off to Neverland.

One tiny problem with announcing their Blackspire intentions out loud? Forgetting The Monster can hear them. And that it knows how make some fucking noise.

Although the door in Eliot’s eyeline doesn’t crack, or show any sign of buckling, the whole frame, every last board and nail and hinge, thunders. As though several wrecking balls, coated with tornadoes and anvils, have slammed against it all at once. Eliot grabs his head, squeezing his eyes shut, preparing to feel his skull explode. Or at least a horrendous migraine, bare minimum. But there is no pain. He can feel Quentin’s hands flutter around his in panic, but his worried words are lost as another colossal impact jars the door. Again, though, nothing worse happens. Only his own surprise. Only white, scorching light blazing through the gaps in the wood. A smiting wrath, still blocked by few mere timbers.

Well okay then. Eliot can still move his fingers. Still swallow the bile rising in his throat. Could be worse. Everything’s fine.

“I’m okay,” he lies.

Now is not the time to mention he’s seeing words everywhere. Streaks of scarlet – no, _blood_ – smeared across every surface. The Monster’s door. The glass walls. The carpet. Q’s face. The letters sluice, drip, bleed. Thicker than the condensation in the shower. He can almost taste them on his tongue.

 _It won’t work_ , the words read. _Let me out. Let ME out. WON’T work. LET me OUT. My body. MINE. MY BODY. LET ME OUT. IT WON’T WORK._

“We have to go,” he whispers. “Now.”

“O-okay?” Quentin pushes his hair out of his eyes. The bloody letters don’t smear on his skin; they stay right where they are. He starts gathering his hair up towards his nape. Then he realizes it’s still too short for a bun.

**_ELIOOOOT_ **

He winces. Feels an elastic hair tie rub against his own curled palm. Without looking, he knows it’s one from Quentin’s desk, back in his old room at Brakebills. That is, after all, where he used to get them. It’s just what he thought of. What he wished for. He couldn’t help himself.

Calm down. It’s just another fucking summoned object. It’s fine. This little thing is only fucking here because he fucking wanted to do something nice, because he fucking loves his fucking boyfriend with all his fucking heart. Big fucking deal.

But it is another sign, too. That prickling, carving sensation deep in his gut really is here to stay. It’d started not long after his second-to-last teleport. As if the injuries all over his body weren’t giving off enough ominous alarms already. This one, though, is becoming a cavernous ache. The kind of hunger that comes from a day of skipped meals. Digging not just into his stomach, but into the center of his head, behind his eyes. Like he could inhale an all-you-can-eat buffet, on his own, and still have room for what’s cooking in the kitchen.

He’s used to cravings. Addictions. Whimsies. Delayed gratifications. With the lives he’s lived, he could write a multi-volume encyclopedia, complete with detailed diagrams. But this hunger is fundamental. Visceral. Nothing is making it better, or worse. No matter where he blips away to, no matter what objects he brings here. Manifesting something doesn’t even make him weaker, or feel faint – more than he already is, anyway. It shouldn’t be this _easy_ , but it is _._ The only consequence is how the pangs _sharpen_. Always fucking _sharpening_. He’s fucking _hungry_.

Both of Quentin’s hands slide down from his hair, stressfully cupping the base of his own neck. “Okay,” he says again. He tries to sound more certain. “Okay, then, you. You think you can get us some, um, supplies? Or our bags, or–”

**_ELIOT_ **

No. No! He can’t let this, this feeling, take him over, paralyze him. And who fucking cares that everything he summons fills him with utter self-disgust? Not him, nope. He left self-disgust behind a long time ago, right? It’s not like he’s starting to feel, fucking, _diseased_ , or anything. Nuh uh. No way. It’s not like there’s this god-virus-thing infecting every tissue in his body. A virus whose symptoms flare up anytime he so much as thinks a single thought. A virus where he can’t trust his own mind. Yeah, he doesn’t care about that at all. Not one bit.

**_ELLLIIIOOT_ **

Alrighty! So. Blackspire. He has to go there. Cool. Let’s do that then. Gotcha. Let’s go now.

Now _._ Nowwww _._ Come on. Everything _kinda_ depends on this. Come ooon. Want it. _Come on._ Want to go. To Blackspire! _Want it!_

Naturally, he stays right where he is, Quentin’s voice going in one ear and out the other.

Because.

Well, haha, funny thing, but. The other, tiny problem is:

How? How can he _make_ himself want to go back? To the place that ranks about an inch above Whiteland on Places He’ll Return to When Hell Freezes Over. Every memory he has of that place is poison. Nothing but fear and foolish pride and shadows. Violence and hurt and involuntary amnesia. The ruined hopes of every magician. A love he’d tarnished forever motivating every mistake.

And he’s supposed to just take Quentin back there with him? As easy as that?

Ha, yeah, um, FUCK that.

But he has to do it.

But he _can’t_.

Yeah, obviously Blackspire’s back door must still be wide open. All thanks to The Library. It’s a big reason The Monster got out in the first place. The only people who were rightly terrified about leaving it open for too long had also been powerless to close it, when they were all dragged out of there. If Eliot is going to lock himself inside the castle, that means he needs _someone_ to close that back door back up. On the off chance that The Monster breaks through, before he can finish the job. Someone’s gotta be there, to seal The Monster away again, so it can’t get out again. Which is… reasonable. Very reasonable.

Except for, you know, how it would be just like what Quentin promised he’d do, last year. Meaning he’d be right back where he started. Back inside the torturous hell he’d volunteered for.

_(Making this yet another Quentin life snuffed out by Eliot’s choices.)_

( _And Q hasn’t even had this new one for very long. Eliot might be batting forty-one out of forty-one, for all he knows.)_

He could just go now, by himself. Break the promise he made barely a minute ago. See if he actually could shut the door behind him alone, once he crossed the threshold. Honestly, if he did manage that, who knows whether anyone would even be able to bust in after him. Plus, Eliot could survive in hell by himself, if he really had to. He’s got plenty of practice. Maybe he’d eventually die of starvation, and the Monster Speck would just drift around down there forever. Just a bunch of shiny, godly dust motes. Or, he could let himself give up, once he’s sealed in. Let The Monster take the reins back. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about whose body was whose anymore. Damn himself only. Save everyone else. Go back to the Happy Place forever. Be a hero.

Of course, he hasn’t blipped away to kickstart all that either. As if any of those ideas didn’t send revulsion ripping through his gut, he does have a lapful of Quentin Coldwater to think about. That tends to skew his priorities a little.

If he does try that whole martyr song-and-dance, Q would be devastated. Inconsolable. Who knows what he would do?

Eliot can think of a few things. None of them good.

So, to prevent that whole shitstorm of worst-case scenarios, is taking Quentin with him really the better option?

Setting aside his absolutely immeasurable love for him – and the fact that he’d be ruining Quentin’s life _again_ if they fail and get stuck down there – Q did arrive at the Blackspire idea right around the same time. Wrote a whole mini persuasive essay about it in his head and everything. He’s got a better grasp on all this. He definitely has a saner head on his shoulders right now. He’ll come up with a plan. Given some time, he always does. He’s even offered to help Eliot process… one or two things. So that he might stop feeling the horror dripping from his hands and his mouth and beneath his fingernails and inside his skull all the time.

And, even though he had sworn to himself he wouldn’t talk about all that shit… deep deep _deep_ down, he does want to. He wants to say it. Admit to it. Confess it all. Then maybe, just maybe, instead of _him_ punishing himself all the time, just as he deserves, someone else can take over that exhausting job.

…Or.

And that’s the other funny thing. About “or.” About hope.

As much as he _knows_ he deserves nothing but the worst… well, Hope is still at the bottom of the box, Pandora. He can’t deny that. He does, in fact, hope he might start healing. That he might get some forgiveness, for at least some of what he’s done. That he might even forgive _himself_ for some of it too.

( _Not for everything that goddamn fucking dream always drags back up, of course. He’ll never make up for any of that. Not ever._ )

But, yes, for the rest of it, he still has some hope. That – at some obscure point down the road – he might _not_ feel a fraction of all this pain and guilt anymore. He’s so used to it by now. So tired of it. So sickened by it, no matter how numb he’s tried to make himself. Yes, he knows he doesn’t deserve for any of it to stop. But he wants it to. It’s why he couldn’t stop himself, when he talked about breaking Quentin’s arm, and choking him, and… the other things. Because he wants his help. Because Quentin is one of the _only_ two people on this planet who somehow loves him just as much as he loves them, despite every single massive fuck-up he’s put them through. Because Quentin is the _one_ person who grew old with him. Who chose him for fifty years, and then chose him again. Who still chooses him, every day.

So, out of hope, to that selfish end, he can make himself want to go to Blackspire. If Q goes with him, then he can go.

 _IT WON’T WORK_ , the bleeding words scrawl.

 ** _It won’t work_** , The Monster whispers. ** _Eliot. ELIOT. IT WON’T WORK, ELIOT._**

No. Come on. Picture it. The crunch of soot beneath his boots. The charred stone wall of the castle, grinding as it opened, revealing a brave woman in full armor. She’d looked so uncertain and steady, all at once, that he had to hold the keys up. To show her. Proof. Reassurance. Every promise kept. All while Q was shooting him an unreadable look, and he, in the back of his head, was trying to remember the right way to stand when you shoot a handgun.

Then, he was stepping through the door. To save everyone. To save Q.

His stomach lurches. Hunger. _Hunger_.

The couch falls away beneath him. He really oughta start doing this while he’s standing up. Quentin crashes forward into his chest, holding on for dear life as hot wind blasts them from all sides. Eliot lands on his bruised back, squeezing Q as close as he can, while several cuts shriek in pain. Lightning splits the roiling sky above their heads. They both cough from the ash in the air. When Eliot opens his eyes, a nearby monolith – one of those eerily familiar dark towers, topped by his favorite, giant spinning Sims diamond – dwarfs them in its shadow. They are, thankfully, in the same little courtyard as before. The one where the _Muntjac_ had docked, and they’d all clambered down her single, unsteady rope ladder. He’s not surprised that the ship isn’t here. As nice as it would have been to have a way home, it’s not like they gave her a reason to stick around, last time.

Nosing at Eliot’s heart, Q still has his eyes shut. “A little warning next time?” he groans, woozy. “I thought we’d get a bit more time than that.”

The muffled words tickle. His lips keep brushing the gap between two buttons on Eliot’s shirt. If The Monster’s door wasn’t mockingly standing a few feet away, he’d crack a smile.

“We should get inside,” he grunts instead. It’s not like he can offer to take them back.

Quentin nods against the fabric, before patting Eliot’s arm, asking to be let up. Eliot realizes just how hard he’s squeezing him. It takes a second, but he makes himself let go.

Once they’re both on their aching feet, they take a better look around. The high walls haven’t done much to keep out debris from the constant firestorm outside. Since their last visit, a few new igneous boulders have landed between several smooth dunes of ash. A warped, distorted Zen garden, almost. Although, to be fair, it’s not like this place ever had… anything, really, in the way of gardens. Nor any need for them. Blackspire never had any ambassadors to impress. It never housed any High royals looking to sunbathe or take leisurely strolls. This courtyard probably mirrors Josh’s favorite cultivating spot back home, but here, it’s missing the flower boxes, the benches, and all of those convenient archways to others part of the castle. Blackspire, Eliot has to remind himself, never had a need for exterior doors, either. Except for the one they need, a couple yards away.

The deep orange blaze from the nearest volcano highlights the yawning gap in the wall. Some protruding square panels on its inward face still shine, even now. They bathe the hallway with a distinct magenta-crimson glow, but the magic doesn’t reveal much more than that. Any torches further inside were either blown out by the wind, or they burned away long ago.

“Home sweet home,” Q says softly, and he starts towards the castle, barefoot.

**_BOOM_ **

**_BOOM_ **

Wrecking balls and tornadoes and anvils. Eliot sends a withering glare off to his left. This only spurs The Monster on. As the soot in the air makes him squint, the wooden door gets closer. Louder. Bloodier. Each time he blinks, an escalation.

A feral scream is building up in his throat, and he doesn’t know who it belongs to. He wants to tell it to back the _fuck_ off.

What, more noise, and a few gory mirages? Real original! It thinks it can scare him? Thinks it can win? Thinks _that’s_ gonna make him give up? After everything else it’s tried? After all the shit he’s waded through, to get here? That’s all it’s got?! _FUCK THE FUCK OFF!!!_

But he’ll just look crazy if he starts shouting at it. That’s gonna make Q worry more. Worse, it’ll definitely scare him, though he’ll try to hide it.

The elastic in his hand might help after all, then. Some of those damn flashbacks always play out through a curtain of his own hair, tickling his face. Right now, it’s his body, his rules. He can’t manage a bun like Quentin’s, as he gathers his hair up. But without his favorite Johnny B gel, a little ponytail is the best he can do. Sue him – he’s a childish, vindictive bitch, and it makes him feel good. Better yet, his legs are lead, but he can make himself take a step. A step is a taunt. A step is a threat. A step is a weapon. This time, he staggers forward without anyone’s help.

( _Without Q, without that Healing PT at Brakebills, without Margo towards that fucking bonfire_.)

**_BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM_ **

“Shut up,” he spits through gritted teeth. He closes his eyes, gasping, his shins about to seize up.

“Oh god, El, sorry.” Quentin is back, taking his arm to hold him up again. “Here, gimme your–”

“I got it,” he hisses.

He’s met with silence. Sighing, he cracks an eye open, ready to apologize. The bloody words have vanished. Now all he can see is Q staring at him, his head tilted to the side. His confused puppy impression, spot on. His mouth purses, then gapes, as though it’s glitching between a frown and something like self-conscious surprise.

When he sees Eliot making a _what’re you gawking at_ face, he clears his throat. “Your. Your hair.”

…Didn’t realize it was _that_ bad.

“I just thought about a hair tie. For you, before. Except. Then I just figured I’d– It doesn’t matter.” Eliot looks down at his feet, getting ready to try walking again. A whole different pit is settling in his stomach. The Monster’s gone quiet since Q came closer.

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“I. Kinda like it. That’s all.”

Warmth flickers inside him. He glances up, to catch his eye, but Quentin’s already turned away. He’s staring the gap in the wall again. A moment ended, before it began.

Eliot sees hesitation in the set of his shoulders. Now that something has kept him from charging ahead, there is plenty of room for second thoughts. Plenty of time to imagine how they might not survive, once inside.

“Last chance to back out,” he offers wanly.

Quentin’s grip on his sleeve tightens. “Over my dead body, remember?” The side of his mouth quirks – a wry warning – and the grip loosens. “Hey, I know we don’t know if you making things appear is, um, bad, but… you think we can try one thing? Just one?”

Another blast of volcanic wind blows Quentin’s hair up in his face. Eliot shuffles another step forward. “If we don’t get inside soon–”

Quentin locks his legs, anchoring them in place. Sure, he’s not immovable – he’s actually swaying, like he might fall over any second – but he’s not going anywhere. “Hear me out. This is like camping, or a field trip, or–”

“This is _hardly_ –”

“I’m just saying,” he presses testily, “maybe we get ourselves some food? And, you know, there are a few conveniently packed bags on Earth we could bring along?”

We.

Like _he’s_ got these fucking powers too.

Okay, it would be kinda nice to have toothpaste. And, if they can’t find any other decadent showers after today, a change of clothes will make things bearable.

“We don’t want to try this later?” Eliot says.

There are chairs inside, right? He’d rather collapse into one himself, instead of collapsing on Q now. Getting unceremoniously dragged across the threshold would be farcical. Downright hammy.

Quentin grimaces. Hesitantly, he points out, “What if the castle doesn’t _just_ stop The Monster from travelling?”

As in, the second he steps through, no more Monster mojo? Sign him the fuck up.

“A suitcase or two is one thing,” Eliot sighs, his eyes downcast. “But, if I do go all ‘you wouldn’t download a pizza’ on this?” He swallows, the carving, stabbing demands of his stomach rising, and his self-disgust roaring. God help them when he starts getting hangry. “I’m not sure we’ll be able to get everything in all at once. Not while we’re both about to crash. Priority one is me, in there. I guess… pick one, and we go without the other. Or pick one, and find out if I can do the other later. Same diff.”

“Suitcases then,” Quentin says immediately. Seeing Eliot’s confusion, he holds up a placating hand. “I’ve got reasons. Give it a shot?”

Oh, just give it a shot, huh? Just try to make the god-virus-thing work for him again? Instead of being at the fucking mercy of his fucking id or whatever? Hellooooo. One purposeful trip to Fillory Hell – only after a _long_ internal monologue about it – does not an Eliot-genie make, Quentin! He hasn’t magically flipped the switch! It’s not like he has any idea how this works!

If he “wants” the suitcases, does he have to want everything inside them too? How is he supposed to know what Q packed? Much less if any of it matched? Every single sock and silk brief and Versace custom print and travel-size skincare bottle and brass tie clip – not to mention how Quentin’s suitcase is _just_ as much of a giant question mark – outside of some Levis and his geek shirts and those three hoodies he’s compelled to wear and about _twenty_ books and who knows if he remembered his _meds_ and his _deodorant_ and his _toothpaste_ and oh god he is _not_ going to start crying if he can’t get Q everything he needs to survive down here, _stop it!_

Their suitcases skid across the ground a few feet away. On wheels, without toppling.

After a quick Mann reveal, confirming their contents, Q huffs in relief, “Cool.”

Not fucking cool. But Eliot decides to keep that to himself. He also blinks very, very fast, so those fucking tears stay off his fucking face and go back where they fucking came from. Shit, he is getting hangry, isn’t he? He can hear Margo shouting at him, from all the way on the other side of the world. _What is this, 2007, you emo bitch? You get your Linkin Park privileges AFTER you close the goddamn door!_

He makes his legs move, and the Monster starts bellowing all over again. But whether it’s out of fury, or out of fear, it doesn’t matter. Clenching his teeth, like every shriek is a cheer, Eliot lurches forward faster. Quentin startles, telling him to take it easy. But no, he won’t. He flicks his fingers, and their suitcases zoom through the castle opening like air hockey pucks. He drowns out every other sound but his breathing, his heartbeat, and his footsteps.

**_NO NO NO NO STOP NO NO STOP I WON’T LET YOU MY BODY MY BODY MINE MINE LET ME OUT I’LL TEAR YOU OPEN I’LL RIP YOU UP TEAR YOUR HEAD OFF EAT YOUR HEART YOU CAN’T IT WON’T WORK QUENTIN’S NOT SAFE HERE NOT SAFE WITH YOU HE’S MY FRIEND NOT YOURS_ **

“Shut UP!”

And he doesn’t have the strength to apologize. He knows how it sounds. Quentin will try not to take it personally, and mostly succeed. All he can do, right this second, is screw The Monster over so bad, it’ll think twice before trying to scare him again.

See? See the gap in the wall right there, Monster? It’s getting closer! And all this pain is just… an electrical signal. That’s right. Just little signals. And he can ignore them; he’s always been able to. He’s gonna narrow everything down. One step in front of the other, with Q at his side to keep him vertical. That’s all he needs to worry about.

The wooden door moves right in front of him. Mere inches from the dusty, soot-streaked floor of the castle. He’s going to crash into it if he doesn’t stop. In retaliation, he closes his eyes. Pushes through the sound of his own screams piercing through his head. Swerves to the right at the last second.

And enters Castle Blackspire, on his own two legs.

**_NO NO NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO_ **

Tragically, of course, nothing feels any better once he’s inside. Some victories don’t come with fanfare. Bitching about it won’t get him anywhere. But a little _chime_ or something would have been nice. Ding dong, the witch isn’t dead, but she is stuck under the house, screaming her head off, and you’re about to take her ruby slippers away.

“Get the door,” he grinds out.

Q seems to know better than to argue. He leans Eliot next to one of those giant metal braziers. Then, with a few jerky tuts, he’s got something straight out of _Doctor Strange_ coiled in his hands. A fiery, sparking rope, which he swings around his head and launches at the wall. And, thank you cowboy camp, it lands. Or, adheres, really. Less _Doctor Strange_ , more sticky-hand from the Chuck E. Cheese prize counter. He tugs on the chord twice, and it reels itself in, taking the open wall along. The square panels slide back into place, and darken. Blackspire’s only breach closes, every stone grinding to a halt.

They’re sealed in.

And The Monster? All of a sudden, not a peep. Hail Dorothy, the Wicked Witch is mute.

Actually, strike that. _Everything_ is quiet. As they stand around, panting, it’s hard to miss how empty it all is. On their first trip, it was all running feet, clanking keys, primeval eruptions – and that was before all that yelling from his gunshot, and Alice straight up melting all their hard work.

This place is… utterly dead now. There’s not a single living thing here; they can feel it. The bottom of Fillory stretches for leagues around them. Fathoms above them. Every inch of it abandoned. Haunted. Hell, he’s spoken to the ghosts that once stayed here. Almost exorcised them, in a way. To finish the job, he’s even brought the last one back. How exciting, dear viewers. And the award for Best Reverse Orpheus goes to….

He wipes his tears away, feeling charcoal streak across his cheekbones, while Quentin hobbles over. A little conjured ball of light follows, showing how carefully blank his eyes are. And Eliot can’t think of anything to say, either. The time for handwringing has passed. They just slip his arm over his shoulder, and head deeper into the castle together.

He keeps the suitcases close with magic – his own, he ensures. Probably. Hopefully. Whatever. They take a familiar set of stairs into the would-be throne room, the plastic luggage clattering each step behind. It’s impossible to miss that damn fountain. Eliot thought he would feel sick seeing it again. Like holding the Truth Key. Looking at the sum of everything they fought for, and everything they lost, would certainly qualify as a nauseating dose of reality. Mostly, though, he can’t manage anything but spite and exhaustion.

At least that fucking Syphon is motionless. All the Wellspring magic is safely flowing downward, to power Fillory and the rest of the universe beyond. There is some relief in that. In theory. Not enough to linger, though. Only a quick glance between them, and they both decide to steer clear of it.

The passage to their right – the one Ora led Quentin through before – is equally out of bounds. They can save the trauma emanating off that place for another day, thank you.

That leaves the archway straight ahead. But where to, from there? The dwarves had designed Whitespire in Blackspire’s image, but they’d avoided all the prison _feng shui_ in their blueprints. The “mistakes of the gods” used to be The Monster’s cellmates. Fortresses don’t come with four poster beds and feather pillows. How many “dining halls” and “storage closets” were actually closed off by steel bars and full of chains?

“Ora,” Eliot says.

“Yeah, what about her?” Q grunts, adjusting his grip on Eliot’s ribs.

“She must’ve slept somewhere.”

“High King’s chambers?”

Oh God, he hopes not. That many stairs? Just kill him now.

“Maybe. Tonight, we’re not getting there without a Wonkavator. Anything local?”

Their conjured ball of light flickers. Quentin’s phosphoromancy never did go beyond first year basics. As he casts the spell again, the little sun brightens. It reveals a cute, distant little half-smile playing across his face. “Definitely,” he says. “And if it’s not comfy, we’ll make it comfy.”

Honestly, if it’s horizontal, it’ll do. They make for the archway, and swing through the Secondary and Tertiary parlors. Eliot probably would have been fine with those, with their empty fireplaces and pithy support columns. But those rooms do seem… exposed, somehow. Though their windows are barely more than slits, and their ascending staircases wouldn’t fit Humbledrum on a diet, the whole vibe of this place makes him want to hole up somewhere. Hide away, build a barricade, claim sanctuary.

He has an idea of where they’re headed, once they trek across another side corridor. His suspicions grow as Q ignores the more obvious Map Room, and then Eliot’s fighting an smile of his own, when they round the final corner.

Blackspire’s Armory is not nearly as cramped as its successor. The space is much wider, almost the size of a classroom. Its bookshelves are neatly built into the walls, and full of equipment instead of scrolls and tomes. He sees a candlepin bowling set. A couple of bastardized lacrosse sticks. Some cracked, faded billiard balls, with letters instead of numbers. And, of course, The Armory’s main feature remains: that lovely dais. In other words, a chair. A glorious, terribly uncomfortable chair.

Quentin sets Eliot atop it, and they slump down together with twin sighs of relief. They can barely hear the volcanoes from here. The compromise is, of course: no wide window. The shadows loom thick and heavy all around, as though they’re in a bunker.

Then again, who knows if they’ll ever get any sunlight, on this side of the world. If they light a few lamps, maybe set up a diffuser, who’d know the difference?

Quentin raises his head. “What do you say? Base of operations?”

“No argument from me,” Eliot says, and he nudges the suitcases further into the room.

He’s not going to ask if they’re about to try for some sleep. The answer, he knows, is yes. Minus the fact that there’s no mattress, no cushions, no fitted sheets. Their weighted blanket didn’t come along for the ride. There is a guaranteed nightmare waiting on the edge of his subconscious. Oh, and Bonus Round: The Monster’s here too.

All the same, Quentin can’t keep this up much longer. His shoulders and thighs are spasming, his muscles past the point of use. After dragging Eliot out of a car, across a lawn, around a house, and now into a castle, Quentin deserves to get enough sleep for the both of them.

“Think the latrines are in the same place?”

How should he know? Do the “mistakes of the gods” even pee?

“Only one way to find out,” Eliot says. Neither of them move. “You first,” he prods eventually. He has this vague idea of surprising Quentin with something like a made bed, when he gets back. If he extends the dais out…. Uses a little transmutation…. Queen-sizes it…. Then bunches up a few hoodies, for pillows? Yeah, that could work. “Leave some hot water for me.”

“Psh, yeah right,” Quentin mutters. “God, I hope there is water. Somewhere around here.”

He slowly gets to his feet, keeping ahold of Eliot’s hand for support. When he gets too far away, he switches to leaning on a bookshelf, and then the doorframe.

( _Exactly like that time he pulled his back, re-thatching their roof. Outright balking, whenever Eliot so much as hinted at getting him a cane, so they could match. Stubborn old goat._ )

Before he leaves, Quentin turns to give him a worried look. “You gonna be okay here, by yourself?”

Loaded question. Hm. How had he put it, the last time he’d been sitting right here, just like this? Taking one for the team, for the rest of his life? Lying back and thinking of Fillory? Something like that. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

Quentin gnaws the inside of his cheek. The dictionary definition of reluctance. He takes in Eliot’s hunched, off-kilter body. His eyes flick from his crownless head to his ringless hands. His smudged corduroys. The gold whorls of his shirt. Several moments pass, and Eliot’s about to ask him if he’s alright, when Q suddenly says, “What do you think would’ve happened? If I hadn’t left with everyone? If I’d stayed here, with you, back then?”

Eliot’s mouth opens. He’s too distracted by his imagination to close it.

Assuming they are both awash in the same memory, the question is… a nice one. If Q had stayed. Maybe Eliot would have avoided that awkward secret-past-confession with Fen. There would have been at least one person laughing at his godawful speech about farms and royal dung. More quiet, late-night chats by the fire. Bitching about the Pickwicks, the centaurs, the hippogriffs, while they chugged his latest disgusting attempt at champagne. Commissioning King Quentin his own royal suits. Going on boring errands, renamed as quests to make them bearable. Finding him right here, surrounded by books, gnawing his nails, researching how to fix one Wellspring problem after another. Yanking him away, to get some food. _Your fantasy world wet dream will still be here when you get back, Coldwater._ Evenings spent learning Fillorian dances, to prepare for Eliot’s first ball. Q insisting he’ll trip and break something if he tries. Dragging him onto the dance floor. Holding him close, too close, disguised as correcting his footing and his posture. Knowing, in his heart, he could never take things further, since any chance of that had been ruined. And maybe, Q would have surprised him anyway. Making the first move, just like before, after stumbling upon a book that explained the loophole in Fillorian royal marriages.

Maybe Alice wouldn’t have died.

Maybe Julia would've killed Reynard after all, getting magic shut off that way, instead of murdering Ember.

Which in turn would have cut The Beast off from the Wellspring, changing him back into a Shadeless – but otherwise entirely human – Martin Chatwin.

And on, and on, and on.

Maybe Quentin had stayed, once. In one of the other timelines. And then died anyway.

Or maybe he’d never stayed in any of them. The one combination Jane had never tried, right?

Before he can put any of his own words together, he hears The Monster answer, ** _We would have had so much fun, Quentin._ **It’s little more than a growl. Barely contained rage. And, somehow, even a little wistful. Morose, perhaps, if Eliot feels like projecting.

“Let’s not,” Eliot answers. “Not tonight.”

“Okay,” Q says. He doesn’t look too hurt by that, thank God. “I’ll be right back.”

“Yep. See ya.”

Quentin flinches, but turns to go, the wall holding him up. His bare feet pad along the stone floor, until the hallway eats up the sound.

To the dark, empty air, Eliot says, “You don’t get to talk to him like that.”

**_Yes I do. He’s MY friend._ **

“No, he’s not,” Eliot seethes, matching its hatred. He tries to get up, to get away. His legs give out, and he topples to the floor. Bruise number 5000 of 5001. Fine, whatever, he can fucking deal. Gracelessly, he pushes his broken ass across the stone, knocking the suitcases down as he goes. Once he gets his back to the Armory wall, he takes a minute to focus. To feel the essence of the Wellspring, wafting in from the corridor. He can sense the strong pull, the power of his pain.

It doesn’t matter whether he wants it. He probably doesn’t, not really. It’s too hard, too complicated.

He ignites the chandelier over his head with a snap, then switches to Popper 9, perpendicular to Popper 8, pushing them both towards his sternum. Then… what came after–

Right: transition to Ali’s Fifth Form twice inverted, away from his sternum, into McCabe’s Ninth Axis of Change while his pinky metronomes between Popper 19 and 37. He has to physically lift his legs out of the way, as the dais scrapes along the floor towards him, swelling and expanding. Another few rounds of Popper 13 and 26, and the cement softens to something closer to clay. When it’s finished, it looks like… well, like nothing. Just a bigger platform. But he did it. He can even undo it later, if they have to migrate to another room tomorrow. And he did it all without those cheating Monster Powers. Physically doing the work feels good. He’s earned this, as unremarkable as it is.

The castle’s temperature is hard to gauge. Calypso’s magic rocks must be doing something to the air. The heat from outside never lets up, but things aren’t exactly sweltering in here. His English Laundry is definitely soaked through with sweat, though, lending an unpleasant chill. Flapping one of his hands out, he snags his suitcase, unzips it, and rifles around until he finds a pair of maroon silk pants.

Quentin didn’t pack him a matching shirt, knowing he likes to sleep topless. Considerate. Not helpful. He’d packed for the coast. The summertime coast, and a temperature-controlled luxury Airbnb. If they don’t find blankets, his nips could poke an eye out soon. _Why_ had Q asked for their suitcases again?

Who cares? Who. Cares. The navy waffle-knit shirt will work. He musters the energy to start on his buttons, but then his pajamas are… on him. And his previous outfit is neatly folded by his feet. Socks and brogues on top, ash and soot brushed away. All innocuously confirming: the castle hasn’t made him impotent after all.

Great. He can get it up for pajamas. Halle-fuckin-lujah. What’s next, a mattress pad? Electric blankets? Their Netflix “My List,” broadcast on the walls?

It’s not like he really expected his powers to go away, but…. How about now, Margo? Can he cry now? Where there’s no shower to hide it? 

_Knock knock knock_

“You don’t have to knock, Q,” he says, strained. “I’m decent.”

**_He didn’t._ **

His own snide chuckle echoes around him.

He’s about to yell again. He’s turning into a regular Norman Bates, isn't he? Except, he _would_ hurt a fly. He has. He’s crashed a bus into one. He’s snapped a neck. Slit a throat. Pried his fingers between cracked ribs and hot slick organs. Held a girl’s decapitated head by her hair. And–

And that’s when Q finds him, calling his name and wrapping a ratty tablecloth around his heaving shoulders. How long has he been gone?

“El? Hey, hey. Shhh shh shhhh.”

“I’mmmmmm ho-okay.”

( _He can’t breathe. Air. He’s gasping. There’s no air. His chest is too small. He can’t make it work. Help, Q. Help. Help! Why can’t he breathe?!)_

“You are. You’re fine. You’re with me.”

Q walks him through the panic attack, his voice at the perfect volume. He prattles on about how clean the castle is, remarking that there’s no dust in sight, nor any cobwebs or moss hidden in the corners. Does Eliot want to move back to the seat? No? Good choice. Staying right here is better.

His chatter doesn’t falter when a nearby low bookshelf is suddenly teeming with bottles of Maker’s Mark and Grey Goose. He merely starts anew on the crispness of the air. Lacking opium, it still manages to remind him of the woods, high in the mountains. And Eliot’s hair being up like that is a hash-tag _look_ ; can’t believe we didn’t think of it sooner. Wait ‘til tomorrow - they’ll find him a mirror, so he can see for himself.

Painstakingly rising, changing into his own pajamas, Q goes about his usual nightly routine next. He gets out his toothpaste and starts brushing his teeth, of all things, as if it’s not close to four in the morning. He doesn’t even realize there’s no sink here, does he? Not until his mouth is so full, he can’t babble anymore, and he has to frown while he thinks of what to do.

“There’s bowls,” Eliot pants, pointing to a stack of three across the room.

Watching him try and figure out the politest way to spit almost sends Eliot into a round of hiccups. His newfound breathing gets sacrificed for a tiny laugh. Q rolls his eyes at him. He sticks his tongue out, pretending to be offended.

With that, the room becomes less stifling. His chest unlocks. His stinging cuts dull their ache. The door isn’t anywhere in sight. He exhales. Inhales. Tosses the tablecloth around his shoulders onto their makeshift bed.

“Nice touch, with this,” notes Quentin, nudging it with his toe.

Eliot tugs out his hair tie, wrapping it around his finger. “It’s not a Casper,” he deflects. “I should’ve tried for a Purple.”

“I’m not complaining.”

Quentin comes back over, checking in. There’s a fleck of toothpaste in the corner of his mouth. Shoving his embarrassment aside, Eliot lifts his arms. Glib, resigned, sophomoric. When Q bends down, he swipes the toothpaste away with his thumb. Quentin smiles in appreciation, then slides his hands under Eliot’s arms, lifting him from the floor like a toddler. They wobble awkwardly to the latrine and back, finishing at what could – loosely – be defined as Eliot’s side of the bed. He sinks into the stone a couple inches. Something so minor shouldn’t make him happy, but it does. Closing his eyes, he makes an exaggerated snoring noise, like he’s already drifted off, for the sake of hearing Q chuckle.

They fashion their makeshift pillows, clean Q’s spit bowl, and dowse the chandelier. The darkness settles around them like a blanket all its own. The tablecloth becomes as good a top sheet as any.

Perhaps, if he keeps his head as empty as possible, they’ll be safe. If he doesn’t want anything, then nothing will happen. Lying on his back, closing his eyes, breathing deeply, wishing he’d taken a few more mouthfuls of that scotch at the beach house, as a pain killer…

Nope. Empty head. Empty. Head.

Before he passes out though, he at least should say good night.

“Thank you, Q.”

There aren’t any shifting sheets, nor the stirring of a comforter, but he can tell Q has drawn close beside him. “Thank you, too. All this is… impossible. And you’re dealing with it anyway.”

“Only ‘cause you’re here.” He finds Quentin’s perfect, callused hand in the dark. Runs a touch over the rise of his knuckles. Cups his palm, entwines their fingers.

Quentin somehow manages to shuffle even closer. Eliot worries he will cry out in pain if he tries to hold him in his arms. He hopes he’ll do it anyway.

“You know…” Q starts, and then yawns, right against his shoulder.

“I do,” Eliot hums. 

**_You are so booooring_** **,** the Monster snarls.

Eliot squeezes Quentin’s hand.

“Ah.”

“Sorry.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“……okay,” Quentin allows, probably for the last time.

He’s in for it tomorrow, guaranteed.

So Eliot replies, with complete subtlety, “So, what do you know?”

“Oh. I. I dunno, moment’s ruined, now.”

“Try anyway.”

Q presses himself right against him. His heartbeat taps against Eliot’s arm. “Can you turn towards me? If you can’t, forget it.”

He can, although it doesn’t happen quickly. And then a zipper prods his nose, which bears some adjusting. His curiosity stays piqued the whole time, at least.

Once he’s settled, Quentin whispers, “You know, it’s considered extremely disrespectful to touch a king without permission.”

Eliot’s stomach twists. Quentin unlaces their fingers….

And, a second later, he feels him grab his ass in the dark. And give it a liiiiittle squeeze.

Q’s laughter puffs across his face. “Figured I was about two years overdue.”

Of all the ridiculous– Like he hasn’t done _more_ to his ass than–

It doesn’t matter. It feels good to laugh again. Hurts too, his ribcage complaining the whole time.

In another life, hearing Q say that would've given Eliot several ideas. Maybe inspiring a scene or two.

He bends his head, brings their lips together. A long, thankful goodnight kiss.

Maybe some of the other Eliots had something like this, much earlier than he ever did. Maybe they got comforting cuddles in the Cottage nook, or starlit picnics out on the Sea.

Maybe other Eliots never got anything. Pining away in the dark of their bedrooms, Q alive and well and studying furiously for an exam downstairs.

( _But_ _none of them had ever…. Not even these versions of them, here, now…. None of them had ever made it, had they? None of them had ever survived._ )

Eliot ropes his injured arm around Quentin’s back. He tries not to shake. To let the lump in his throat grow any bigger. To say he’s sorry, over and over and over.

_Knock knock knock_

_Knock_

_Knock knock_

_Knock knock_

**_Eliot. Eliot. ELioT._** Belittling. Haunting. Smug.

Empty. Head. Empty head, empty head., empty head. Like that Snape Oclu-shit. The stuff that Harry couldn’t do in the fifth movie.

“Goodnight,” he whispers.

“’Night.”

Quentin cracks his neck, burrowing into his shoulder, rubbing his face against him. The snuggliest, squirmiest cat in existence. Eliot closes his eyes, surrendering to the true dark. He can practically hear all his organs thanking him, fried as they are.

His mind is still buzzes like a wasp nest. The dream could happen again. So…. So…. So he won’t think about it. He won’t. Period. He’ll push it all the way over the edge of… his head. And then it won’t come back. At least, not for a good long while. And anyway, The Monster might not let him sleep at all. And hey, that’s a wonderful/dreadful thing to ponder. Which is worse? To be terrorized while awake, or while dreaming?

Or worse still, if he gives in to sleep, maybe he’ll wake up Happy-Place-bound?

Or-or, strike that, reverse it: maybe that what’s been happening all along, since last week. The Monster’s been making him relive… _something he’s not thinking about_ , again and again, when he’s at his most vulnerable.

Fuck, oooo, backtrack again, cha-cha real smooth. If The Monster takes over once he’s asleep… what if this is the last time he’ll hold Q in his arms? Unless he smashes through his trauma again, just for a few seconds of freedom? Maybe there’s a whole new repressed memory he’ll have to find, now that he’s faced the original head on.

**_Elllliot_ **

“Q?”

“Hm?”

“If. I. Um. If at any point you. You lose me. You know I love you, right?”

Quentin takes a deep breath. “I do. I do know,” he says, after a longer pause than Eliot would have expected. He probably wanted to say something else, but decided this was more important. “And I love you. With all that I am. No matter what.”

After that, Eliot’s not sure what happens. Time starts to stretch and shrink, impossible to measure, and he winds up pretty much just lying there in agony. His arm. His legs. His ribs, his _skin_ , his _brain_. He doesn’t let himself cry out, but he does cry, once or twice, when he can’t take it anymore. Endless moments spent silently shaking, chest heaving, blinking up at the ceiling and biting his lip as the tears slip free.

He can’t tell whether Quentin can feel it, during all that. Whether he wakes him at some point, after he’s already drifted off. If he does wake, he’s kind enough to just… let Eliot weep. Maybe he holds onto him a little tighter. It’s hard to remember.

The Monster certainly tries its best. Lots of shouting, plenty of wheedling and violent threats. It goes after the door with force again for a bit, then switches to some kind of haphazard prying, single boards creaking at a time.

Finally, Eliot caves, and starts dipping into his memories full-time. They fade in and out, lending some vivid hallucinations. Insomnia does that, right? Didn’t he read that somewhere? Down the Wikipedia rapid hole, or googling Robin Williams movies at 3am.

They’d tried to explain Mrs. Doubtfire to Arielle, didn’t they. And then tried reenacting the best parts.

( _Fighting over who’d get to dunk their face in the meringue Eliot was making. Twin cries of “helllloooooo!” from behind some cupboards. Arielle definitely didn’t understand, but she laughed, just as hard as she would have watching the real thing._ )

He thinks The Monster asks him a question. About the meringue. He’s too lost in it to answer.

( _Dancing around with a rake from the garden, instead of a vacuum cleaner. Q stuffing some peaches into his shirt for boobs. And those hideous attempts at a Scottish accent. That’s right. Attempts. Plural._ )

He drifts, into his fifties, ( _taking a siesta during the hottest summer they’d ever seen. He’s popping berries into his mouth in the shade. Bright, fizzy sweetness on his tongue._ ) His own voice asks him another question, but he’s distracted when… ( _Q comes out of the house, shirtless, with a cool cloth for him to drape around his neck. His beard is due for a trim. The door accidentally slams closed behind him, knocking one of the window shutters right off. They both groan, neither wanting to fix it. That door always did close too hard. Better to keep it closed. Why go back inside, when they can sleep under the stars tonight? The pattern’s a constellation today. Like it was meant to be._ )

He blinks. Half of the chandelier is lit again, above his head. Not quite stars, but close. Quentin reads by the faint light, turning a page in one of his paperbacks.

Well, no nightmares. Like he has every other night, he must’ve managed a few micro-sleeps or something, even though he’s still starving. And parched with thirst. Goddamn fucking memory-berries. He ignores his spiking hunger for all of a minute, before his stomach gives him away.

Those booze bottles on the shelf catch his eye. He’s satisfied hunger with that before, loads of times. He could again, easily.

**_A drink would be so fun._ **

For _fucks_ sake…

Quentin snickers at the gurgle, folding his book closed. He turns his head, and gives Eliot the softest smile. His tawny bangs have dried overnight, into this beautiful, wavy tuft by his left temple, too short to be tucked away. Perfect for brushing aside, to peck a kiss to his forehead, before letting it fall back into place. A gentle velvet wave. The sight almost brings Eliot to tears _again_. Some heavy, unnamed emotion, building up in his chest like a loaded spring. Q is so attractive, just like this. Some amazing combination of cute and hot and soothing and exhilarating, and so warm and so bright and so soft and _there_ , _right there_ next to him. He almost gasps with it. An old feeling. Strong as ever. Welling up in his throat, burning his eyes. A catharsis he can’t resist. Can’t _not_ express.

Not to be outplayed, his whole body feels like it’s petrified. Any shift in movement, and his muscles _radiate_ hurt. He’s got nuclear fallout for bones. He’s been shredded and recycled. Every artery steamrolled and reinflated. He’d probably give that Roger Rabbit villain a run for his money. _That_ could be why he’s all weepy and mawkish. Yeah. That’s it. Definitely.

There’s no point trying to sleep again. Not while he’s in this much pain. His mental mess is probably worse, not better. In his sorry excuse for a brain, yesterday’s guesses have become today’s facts. Those little fever dreams say it all. If he sleeps, his mind won’t stay tethered. If his mind isn’t tethered – if he doesn’t say focused – he loses ownership of his body. Simple enough. He is all that stands between his love and The Monster, no matter what Quentin promised at the beach house.

Q looks like he could use a few more hours too. His bad shoulder has swelled beneath his shirt, and his forehead’s burnished, more welt than skin. That cut has scabbed over, and the area around it is mottled, bruised, and crusted with flecks of blood from his scalp. His dark, honeyed eyes are clear, though. There’s less strain in the set of his jaw. His foot isn’t tapping idly with nervous agitation, and he’s not tearing tissue from the inside of his lip. He’s halfway recharged. A comforting truth.

Eliot bumbles through something like morning pleasantries. They take another trip to the latrine, once Q asks. It’s even slower going this time. Moving a statue would be easier. All the lactic acid in their bodies hasn’t leached away. They did sleep on stone, no matter how soft he’d tried to make it.

On their way back, he’s all for collapsing onto the bed and never leaving it again – if it weren’t for his stomach practically trying to eat itself. His mind is so bleary, he can’t even imagine what he’d like for breakfast… lunch… whatever-the-fuck-o’clock it is.

But he… should try, right? If that’s all he’s good for right now… They do need to stay alive down here.

“What do you want to eat?”

Quentin’s confused by the question. He stops their progress down the hallway. Once he figures out why Eliot’s asking, he shakes his head, reassuring, “You don’t have to do that.”

Eliot tries to stand up straight, which just sends another round of agony down his shoulders and across his back. “Yeah, Q, I do.” He means it nicely, but comes out like a reprimand, ‘cause pain’s a bitch that way. “You think I’m just gonna let us go hungry?”

“We’re not gonna go hungry.”

“We will if you don’t–”

Quentin’s voice hardens. “No. No way. I’m not gonna make you–”

“If I have to pry that stick out of your ass myself, I– ”

“You know what, El?” He looks away with a mirthless smile. His tone shifts, distances, quirks. Like he’s back on that Cottage couch, watching Eliot confront The Terror of Repeat Vests all over again. Snarking over things worth caring about. “Usually I like it when you try to be my voice of reason, but right now you’re just being stupid.”

 _Someone_ woke up on the wrong side of the dais this morning. Is this leftover from their fight yesterday? What happened to that soft smile?

Quentin adjusts his hold and lunges forward, forcing Eliot to keep up. He dumps him onto the bed once they cross the Armory’s threshold. Out of his open suitcase, he throws a Quaker granola bar at Eliot’s chest, then gets some lotion, plopping down to the floor and tugging Eliot’s shin into his lap. Shaking a glob into one palm, he yanks Eliot’s pant leg up. He works with determination, massaging from his knee to his calf without much gentleness or decorum. Eliot can do little more than keep his balance. Each prod and press sends a fierce ache into his tissues. He clenches his teeth, swallowing every groan.

**_What… is he doing…?_ **

A flicker. Déjà vu.

( _Mom bending down to tie his shoes.)_

 _(Then she’s wrenching her high heels off his feet, as Pop’s footsteps thunder down the hall, coming straight for him._ )

Well, damn. He’s just awash in memories these days, isn’t he?

Eliot ignores the bar in his lap. The lotion has honeysuckle, and hints of orange. Cool and silky and a little magical, it sinks into some of the bandages from yesterday, soothing and agitating all at once. Quentin moves on to his other leg, and then puts him through a series of stretches, rotating his joints, making Eliot tense up all over, until he utterly melts in relief, his nerves singing.

“You made it pretty clear last night that you didn’t want these powers. Concussed or not, I shouldn’t have been so ready to ignore that, outside in the courtyard. I shouldn’t have pushed you,” Q apologizes. He cradles his ankle, pulling it clockwise, then counterclockwise. “I am definitely not gonna make you do that now. You think I can stomach that? Flat out using you, whenever we want?”

Yep, yesterday’s leftover argument, fresh out of the microwave.

He may not have been tossing and turning, but apparently Q had plenty keeping him awake last night too. Problem is, for all his bluntness – and oversimplifying things _way_ too much – his consideration is not as noble as he thinks it is. True, out in the courtyard, Eliot had been resentful about this very thing. And now that he has the respect he wanted, it’s just souring in his stomach. He tears into the wrapper and crams a bite of sticky oats and chocolate chips in his mouth, tasting none of it.

It’d almost be easier, he thinks, to be used. Which is barely any better than surrendering his body, he knows that. But this morning, it’s what he’d prefer. ‘Cause fuck his pathetic hurt feelings – it’s always better to be of some use. Not a deadweight burden of limbs and regrets and traumas.

Quentin sighs, brushing an absent touch up his shin. “Believe it or not, I figured it out this morning. About this place; how it works. How we’ll make it.”

**_Did you, Quentin?_ **

( _Turning around, eyebrows drolly raised. “Seriously, you’re trying to calculate the beauty of all life?” Exasperated, and fond, and actually believing, for all of 2.5 seconds… that if anyone could do it, it’d be Q._ )

Eliot squeezes his eyes shut. God, what the fuck? What’s an insomniac gotta do to stay in the present around here?

And _who_ does The Monster think it’s talking to? It doesn’t _deserve_ Q. Doesn’t deserve to see him, hear him. Doesn’t deserve for Q to do _anything_ for its benefit. It doesn’t get to feel relief or comfort. This is prison, motherfucker. Eternal life-sentence number two.

“You did?” he makes himself say, taking another bite of the bar.

Quentin rolls Eliot’s pajama pants back down, returning his limbs to him. He leans back on his hands. “So, like, Blackspire is probably more _Brave New World_ than _1984_? So that means there’s a good chance we–”

“If you actually think I read those, I’ll blow you right now.”

Q bites the tip of his tongue when Eliot’s eyes flick open. He gives a surprised little laugh. “I’m _this_ close to lying and saying yes. How about I tempt you with a nerd-rant instead?”

Oh, clever boy. Eliot reaches down and thumbs at Quentin’s jaw. That full-body ache is getting fainter by the second. Just enough for some light yearning. He takes a moment to appreciate that glint in Quentin’s eye, before he nods, settling in on the dais and stuffing the last of the snack in his mouth.

“Okay, so, _1984_ ’s scary because it relies on fear,” Q begins. He tilts his head towards the ceiling, exposing the smooth line of his neck. “It’s all ‘Big Brother Is Watching You’ and rats and constant war and destroying the dictionary and history and literature, and, and, even everyone’s way of _thinking_. Thoughtcrimes and shit, right?”

When Q looks back down, to gauge his audience, Eliot’s eyebrows say it all. Scary, because it relies on fear? Groundbreaking.

Quentin’s not deterred by the teasing, of course. “You know Negative Reinforcement, from Psych 101? We… we behave certain ways, make certain choices, because we want to avoid bad things happening to us, right? Expose us to too much bad stuff – like, our worst fears, losing all our freedom…. Taking away who we love, and our beautiful language, and what we believe to be true. You’d do anything to avoid all that, right? You’d fight back, any way you can. But, in the book, Orwell’s government is too strong. Too powerful. They make the main character so terrified, so hurt, that, in the end, his will breaks, to avoid all that pain, and he submits. Brainwashed into loving Big Brother. The end.”

Eliot shivers, about as unnerved as Orwell intended. Some things in that summary are too relatable. He tries to circle back. “Then, is the government… Blackspire? Or the Library, or what?”

Quentin shakes his head. “The Old Gods are the government,” he emphasizes. He gets out a Quaker bar for himself. Around his own mouthful, he says, “Not all from _1984_ , though, not entirely. This other guy, named Huxley, wrote another dystopia, even earlier. It’s called _Brave New World_. It’s, uh, from this quote? From Shakespeare? You might– Anyway, um, _Brave New World_ is scary because it’s all too… tempting, I guess?” He chews, swallows. “In that one, it’s all drugs and no aging and movies that make you feel emotions and sex all the time. Positive Reinforcement. You obey because you’re rewarded for it. You’re given things you’ve been trained to want. So you want those things, and then the government gives them to you when you behave, so you want ‘em more, and they keep giving you what you want, and so on and so on. It’s much easier to control people that way.”

“Still not following, babe.”

Quentin sticks his tongue in his cheek. Searching for a morsel of chocolate, stuck in his teeth. It takes him a second to restructure his argument, but finally, he nods at himself, satisfied. “Okay. Say you’re The Old Gods, El. You’ve allowed your creation, your kid, to be experimented on by Librarians and torn apart–”

( _The four hooded MONSTERS cracking Sister into quarters with starlight and blackholes while I stood there in horror-shock-denial that they could somehow_ **hurt** _her…)_

Eliot shudders again. That wasn’t one of his. But he’d found it, beyond the edges of Brakebills in his head. He hates how sad the memory makes him. For a split fucking second, there’s always pity.

**_Where did you… how…._ **

**_What was that?_ **

He swallows, ignoring the question.

“–and you know,” Quentin goes on, finishing his bar, “that your other kid, if he ever remembers what _you let happen_ , will never, _ever_ forgive you. He might come after you. And he’ll never, ever be afraid of dying. So, what do you do? Throw your other kid in the Seam, while he’s got amnesia, just to be safe?”

“Sure…” Eliot blinks. “But they didn’t.”

“Exactly. They didn’t.” Quentin vanishes their wrappers, then inches forward. He props his arm across Eliot’s knee, then sets his chin on it. He squints up at him, with another curious tilt to his head. Like he’s just _asking_ Eliot to put his hand on his head, caressing his crown in admiration. “Instead, Calypso gets commissioned to build this prison. And, hey, The Old Gods _could_ have decided to tell her that the prison needs to be scary old _1984._ Only… wait. Wouldn’t it be easier, to let your kid have a guardian – a _friend_ – to keep him company? The kindest, strongest friend he could ever ask for? And then, well, what else can you do? To make sure your kid never leaves your _Brave New World_?”

“Drugs and no aging and movies–”

“Sort of.” Q cracks a smile, rolling his eyes. “You keep that friend _alive_. You make sure she never loses hope. You _help_ her keep your kid happy. By pretty much any means necessary, short of letting him escape.”

Interesting….

Oh. Ooooooh.

“You’re saying there’s food here already?” Eliot looks up at the Armory shelves, half expecting them to fill up as he speaks. “That Blackspire’s got something like a kitchen, or gardens or…”

**_Cupboards. And a garden._ **

Almost an afterthought. Eliot can’t make out the tone. Impressed? Resentful?

Quentin nods excitedly. “There’s gotta be something. The cellars, one of the towers. Maybe a whole floor. We just have to find it.”

He can almost… almost see… not where they are, not exactly, but… ( _the clawing, of my hands, through the rich earth, as Ora’s promise came true. I find the thick tuber, a root I can tear up out of the ground into the air, just like she said I could. She cheers for me. I won! It took so long, but I was so patient, and I won! She holds out a basket of plants. Tells me, if I collect all the game pieces faster than she does, then I’d get to eat something delicious.)_

The grind of soil under Eliot’s nails. The sense memory of it. He’s rubbing his thumb and fingers together before he realizes. He can see the dirt, darkening the arches and loops of his fingerprints.

( _Pop shouting below the hay loft, “If those hooves ain’t picked clean, I’ll fuckin’ kill you, boy!”)_

Quentin notices the movement, not saying anything. Eliot balls his hands into fists, to stop himself. The sugar glaze from the snack sticks to his palms.

Whatever… _that_ was, it’s as good as asking The Monster outright. But he’s too unsettled – _unmoored –_ to confirm Quentin’s idea aloud.

It’s… it’s like…

No, forget it.

Anyway, it’s not as though they can investigate this “garden” right this second. For one thing, he can’t seem to go two seconds without snorting lines off Memory Lane’s asscrack. For another, they can’t go far from their little refuge, not ‘til they’re stronger. And they can’t get stronger without rest.

He suggests they take it easy, for a couple hours, and then they can explore. To fill the time, they change into some new clothes, brush the knots out of their hair. Eliot finds some microscopic comfort in sorting further through his suitcase. He’s surprised, and a bit touched, that Q managed some good ensembles, and to color-code it all. He spends way too long grieving a pair of indecent white boardshorts, and their complimenting Avanti shirt with blue banana leaves. An _Encanto_ look, one he’d almost forgotten about. When Q had the time to sneak this out of his closet is anyone’s guess.

The Monster gets over its own brief stint with nostalgia soon enough. As Eliot puts his hair back up, and wrestles himself into an aubergine button down and a pecan waistcoat, his personal poltergeist goes back to shouting. How Eliot is weak, stupid, cruel and horrible. How it _will_ take its body back, any minute now, and then make Q open the castle, so they can go back to being free. More staccato moments of recall break up the litany, as he returns to bed to doze. He has to dart his eyes around the room every so often. To make sure the walls are still the same dark marble, not dissolving into the Cottage’s wallpaper like they always used to.

Six days. Six days, and this is what reality has turned back into. A life all too surreal. Phantom feelings, dog-eared regrets. Can’t he just go back to repressing everything like a good little queer?

At some point, Quentin grabs his journal, writing on the floor a few moments. He soon tears the page out, and folds it into a sleek paper airplane, which he flicks onto the bed. It bumps into Eliot’s thigh, barely a second airborne, jostling him out of his head. Turns out, it’s a letter to Margo. An extremely vague, overly wordy one, explaining they’d had an accident, change of plans, they’re safe, but they have to go hole up somewhere else for a while. Q asks him to… uh, make it do that, that thing? The spell he did, with that map, the first time they came to Fillory?

( _Barely sober enough to draw, Bambi chugging the last of his wine and cutting him off for the night. He almost forgot the stupid mountains came after the sticky swampy lake, not before. And then that line, about hoping he’s not dead, finds its way onto the page before Eliot can take it back._ _‘Cause Q taught him how to hope, the motherfucker. And ‘cause he misses him. He misses his voice and the sunshine of his smile, and he hates himself for how much he still wants to kiss him, to hold him, even though Alice is staring into the inn’s fireplace not two feet away._ )

God. _1984_ or not, Eliot’s got the monopoly on thoughtcrimes, doesn’t he?

Pull it together. The sooner he casts the–

( _“I felt the moment his soul died,” I mumble, sliding my eyes away, tomato paste and vinegar and salt and lipids smooshing across my gums. But why’s there this…discomfort? In my diaphragm. In my throat. Why am_ I _feeling worse? I’m being kind, but Quentin is still looking at my shirt. Exhausted. Head empty except for this… buzzing… not-wanting. He’s… unendingly unhappy. It’s bottomless. I don’t have any more planes for us to smash. What do people say, on TV, all the time? The thing that makes other humans relieved, smile through the tears, move on? Maybe Quentin will cry if I say, “I promise he didn’t suffer.”_ )

 **_It… it_ ** **is _you._ You’re _doing that. How. HOW, Eliot._**

Eliot forces a smile, but tells Quentin Margo will freak out less if it’s in his handwriting. He redrafts the note, subtracting half the grammar, adding some panache. Once he enchants it, and then makes it fireproof, Q promises to go find a window to chuck it from, so it can find her.

The second he’s gone, Eliot dives for the Maker’s Mark. Room-temperature, disappointingly. It burns every cut in his mouth. Hurts to swallow. But it’s blissfully sharp, no sweetness at all, and he belches after the fifth mouthful.

**_Acceptable apology. I did miss this._ **

“And I miss not hearing you.” He takes another swig, and another, and another. He doesn’t even think about slowing down. April hadn’t really been his “cold turkey” milestone. It was more like the month Brakebills finally cut them both off of the good shit, so they’d resorted to Josh’s safer blends, and one or two nightcaps a day, like the functional millennials they were pretending to be. The endorphins from the occasional rim job and dick-down and I’ll-watch-you-if-you-watch-me had eased the changeover. But nothing drowns out memories like a glass bottle with a proof percentage.

He should have raided Margo’s stash when he blipped away earlier. It’d been right there, bedside table, second drawer. But he’d been too busy burying his head in her pillows to remember. Like Quentin’s blunt little statement had followed him across state lines, whining, mosquito-like, in his ear. Among the other incessant sounds in his head.

He puts the bottle down, once it’s half empty. Warmth seeps through him, the best kind. The kind that means he’s well on his way to escaping. On his way to being underwater. Drowning, like the good old days.

Because nobody tells you the big caveat to facing your worst memories, do they? The addendum to the contract. The asterisk on the Directions For Use.

Facing them once does not, in fact, fix everything. Or fix you. Haha, got ya! Traumatic memories still hurt, bitch! Still punch you right in the gut, slice you up, and pour lemon juice on just for kicks. Still make you wanna turn your eyes away every time, to look at anything else, while you shake and shiver inside, nauseous, ashamed. And dealing with them, trying to put them back in their boxes, is like having to pick up an aquarium’s worth of sea urchins with your bare hands. Or like putting a machine shop’s entire set of sawblades away, and you’re only allowed to touch the sharp edges.

( _The roots of the tree scrape my hand as I rise. I know those cries. My friend is charging at me. Betraying me again. I raise my hand, to slice him, before he can slice me. Should I have ripped you apart when we first met, Quentin? Would all our lives be better off if I had?_ )

**_Stop._ **

And Q wants Eliot to go through that? Wants the two of them to sit down somewhere and hash it out and sniffle and hug and kumbaya?

Nah. He’s changed his mind. That stupid forgiveness he secretly hopes for can wait. Honestly, it’ll never happen anyway. Avoiding everything is always easier. It’s his specialty.

After one last swig, he replaces the bottle on the shelf, and scooches over to the candlepin bowling set. The pins are painted. Elementary shapes, stars and circles and triangles. Chipped varnish and cracked veneer, from every time the ball bowled them over. Oh well. What’s one more hit? He lines them up, and then sweeps them all down.

 ** _I hate this game_**.

“You didn’t used to,” Eliot says. He didn’t know that. But he does now. So he sets the pins back up. With a push, the ball ricochets from the corner, and half of the pins fall, a decent split.

**_Fine._ **

( _No, he’s not. He’s not jealous. He’s got no reason to be jealous. Quentin showing up with a 3 rd year redhead after his cute little boat quest is…fine. It’s _fine _. She not a rebound Arielle; that’s a twisted, horrible, despicable thing to even think, and that’s not who Q_ is, _objectively. But Q is barely looking at her, with his fidgety hands stuffed in his pockets while he uses his hair to hide, so if Eliot gets a little satisfaction from Margo baring her teeth at this chirpy bitch–)_

“Now, see, slight problem,” Eliot says, rubbing his eye. He summons the ball back, and hits two more pins with it. “I already know how that ends. I know how all my memories end. You, on the other hand, don’t know everything I’m thinking. I’ve got a great imagination. You wanna keep pissing me off? I can figure out a bunch of _new_ ways to piss you off right back. Ones you won’t expect. You got babied, last time you went to prison. But there’s a new warden now. New penalties for stepping out of line.”

He’s bluffing. And the threat doesn’t hold up to much scrutiny. Cruelty is not, in fact, his middle name. Unintentional Cruelty, maybe, but not this. Not this purposeful, harsh, sadistic law-and-order crap. By now, The Monster probably knows that sort of thing makes him think of his father. Which is why he couldn’t execute Bayler, and why he couldn’t look back at those After Island villagers with their knives, and why Teddy figured out he could get away with almost anything for the first five years, until the first time Eliot had to raise his voice and really put his foot down. He’d bawled about it in Quentin’s arms the whole night after.

Down the hallway, Q shouts, “El! There’s water! I found water!”

“Where?” he shouts back, feigning interest. He stuffs the pins away, and hides the whisky behind the other full bottles. He climbs to his feet using the shelves, and he manages to get to the doorway without falling. And no, fuck off, it’s _not_ like he’s being let out of his cell for rec hours. He’s been in this castle for less than a day. Dramatic much? But Quentin’s there, paper plane-less, ready to release him, and he shows him the way.

Blackspire does have more than a few perks, _Brave New World_ that it is. The stairs, for one thing, are a lie. Climb the first step, and they carry you to the next floor. How long did it take humanity to invent escalators? And Calypso just made them up… who knows how many years ago. Q must’ve had a heart attack and a brain-gasm, discovering this. The journey’s so fast, it’s practically a carnival ride. He can’t help his smile. The thrill of it swooping through his stomach. He’s also lit all new torches on his way to find that window. Will o’ the wisps, dancing in their reflections on the black walls. They make the place a tad less empty.

A yard into this corridor, and Eliot swears he can hear rain. Rain like they never got at Brakebills. Steady, billowing. Lacking petrichor and elegance. And when Quentin leads him to a room on the left, he’s met with a gentle downpour, from some unseen source in the ceiling. Clear quartz crystals, bigger than lampposts, are scattered around inside, lit up from within. The floor is the darkest of oceans, shimmering with an inch or so of water, rippling with every random drop. Though there are no drains in sight, the pool doesn’t leak out into the hall either.

“It’s a shower,” Eliot smirks. There are hooks on the wall, blunted, and some kind of dial at hand-level. When he turns it, steam wafts out in no time.

“It’s everything,” Quentin says. “Cooking, cleaning, relaxing. Probably a slip ‘n slide if you’re crazy enough.”

( _I’m so confused. I can wish away the blood and bones and brains from my skin and clothes anytime, whenever I want. But she scrubs my cheek with a sponge. Rubs some smelly goop into my hair. I’m so confused, and I… like it. Sitting on the floor like this, water sprinkling down my scalp. Maybe I’ll get messy again, so she can clean me up again. And I sense… she likes this too. She finally doesn’t smell afraid. Her heart’s even slowing down. She tells me it’s called the Weather Hall. The only nice weather we’ll ever get.)_

 ** _Stop. That_**.

“It’s not me,” Eliot mutters.

“What’s not?”

Eliot bites his tongue. “I’m… not crazy enough to try the slip n’ slide.”

Quentin gives him a wry look. “You never know. Get bored enough, it might be more tempting than you think.”

( _“You’re bored, and so am I.” Q kneels at his feet, tossing the tiles in his hand onto the ground. He’s biting his lip, pupils blown wide. About as subtle as the hard on Eliot’s been trying to kill since this morning. No, since they first started fucking three weeks ago. He’s fucking addicted to Quentin’s hot, wet, beautiful mouth–_ )

Shuddering, Eliot turns away. The Monster’s apparently figured out it can give as good as it gets. “Let’s see what else is up here.”

His dismissiveness loses some of its bite, when all he can do is limp away. He hopes the subtext comes across all the same. He doesn’t want to get bored here. He’s had too much experience being stuck in one place, with a life-or-death task to keep him going. He’s sworn off doing that again. At least with the mosaic – and even with the Happy Place – there had been some fucking sunlight.

Walking through the castle doesn’t dampen his frustration either. They’d memorized these passages years ago, out of necessity. It’s just like being back in the Cottage, or even Kady’s apartment, though he’d never admit that out loud. Around every corner, a memory waits. At least here, the differences act as a buffer on his nerves. The Portrait Gallery is a Hall of Mirrors, and the Tailors' Wing has an obstacle course. They find the anti-fairy corridor a bit later, but the walls are graffitied with some kind of Fillorian Hangman, represented by an executioner instead of a scaffold. Further along, there’s a notched, upstanding wheel with numbers, besides a scoreboard and some more blank lines topped with letters. Wheel of Fortune, probably. Something about monkeys and typewriters and Shakespeare flits through his head.

The Monster’s door pops back into his field of vision, right as he uses up the last of his energy.

 ** _Take a break_** , he hears himself say. **_Turn the knob. Get some rest._**

The very act of blinking is dangerous. If he lets his lids stay down too long, he might not be able to open them again.

Good ol’ undergrad made him very familiar with this, once. The lucid dream of reality. Staring straight ahead… ( _in the lecture hall, going cross-eyed from the effort. Chewing gum so he has something sensory. Chugging coffee like it’s paying him for the privilege. Wondering why he even bothered to come to class, since his brain can’t even focus on a single word the TA says, so he winds up blowing him for the answer key later, which only works if he doesn’t pass out before he swallows._ )

He leans against a wall, by a putlock hole. The heat outside seeps through his shoulders, loosening some of the tension there. His head is getting fuzzier with every heartbeat. Good. About time.

He barely hears Q suggest they return to the Armory. As his stomach is keen on reminding him, though, they still haven’t found food yet. Should he try poking at these eerie… flashes, past-lives, “remembrances”… to see if he can learn anything more? Probably. Everyone else would. He should be trying to… harness them. Use them; not be subjected to them. That’s what he did before.

He’s a king. He’s supposed to be stronger than this. It’s in his blood. And he’s got Quentin here. That’s supposed to make him invincible. The power of love conquers all, isn’t that what all the stories say?

(“ _There are prisons, and there are prisons.”)_

“El?”

Where did The Monster… How was it… getting all these…

(“ _The spell is like a prison in the middle of the desert,” Fogg lectures._ )

No. Oh God. Fuck.

Why didn’t he think of that? Why didn’t he _think?!_ He should’ve thought all this through. Great, he came up with the _idea_ of Blackspire, bravo. First time he’s aced Theory but bombed the Practical. Q’s probably gonna get triggered by memories of that Web spell in here. Sooner or later. Maybe not today but someday… the same old corridors, same old rooms…day after day…. And if Eliot’s willpower ever breaks, and he loses himself, he’ll become a part of that. A familiar face, but really just a stand-in for torture incarnate. Just like the Web.

( _Or Q might simply get that look in his eyes again. The one on the hill, by the crashed car. And in the shower. And at Kady’s, whenever Eliot surprised him on accident.)_

_(The one like when I perched on the couch, my insides revolting and my skin salty and slimy and “no deal, yes drugs,” and Quentin had begged for another day, just one more day. And his “please” worked on me, somehow.)_

As Eliot slides to the floor, his whole chest smarts. Branded. Punctured. Quentin rushes down, squatting to check him over. He cups Eliot’s face, repeating his name, gauging his temperature, brushing the backs of his fingers along his cheek. Eliot stares at him too. He needs to see him. To feel him. To apologize for torturing him over and over. He touches all the precious, expressive features on Q’s face. His soft, wide forehead. The furrowed gap between his wooly, strong eyebrows. That lovely, wavy tuft. The rise of his cheekbones, with barely a freckle, down to his gorgeous pink lips. The scrape of scruff along his chin. How is he so pretty? How’s he so wonderful? How could his perfect Q agree to be _here_?

“Eliot. Tell me what’s going on, I’m freaking out a little.”

“I’m just losing it,” he chokes out, aware that he’s on his way to being drunk. “That’s all.”

“Okay, can, can I help you find it?” Quentin shifts, from a squat to a clumsy kneel, wincing when his kneecaps protest.

“No,” Eliot laughs, his eyes wet. He darts them up to the ceiling, so he has something easier to look at. “I’m a dog who’s all bark and no bite. But we’re putting me down anyway, in case the muzzle comes off. And I’ve dragged you into the operating room so you can hold my paw while I–”

“Alright, ‘nough of that.” Quentin takes both of his hands, kissing his knuckles. “Where’s this coming from, huh?”

“Oh, nowhere.”

“Fine. How much sleep did you actually get last night?”

“Plenty.”

Quentin rolls his eyes. “So basically zero.” He sighs, maneuvering himself to sit at Eliot’s left. Stretching his legs out, he keeps ahold of one hand, lacing their fingers together. “I should’ve made sure you were the little spoon.”

“I didn’t need to–”

“You definitely did,” Q says with a nudge of his knee. How the fuck does this man know him so well. Little spoon knocks him out faster than Margo’s Ambien. “Is it The Monster? The door?”

**_I wish I could talk with you, Quentin._ **

After Eliot shudders, Quentin sighs, “Look, maybe there is something we can… A spell, or… Something that can knock you out for a few hours, at least. Isn’t there some kind of, um, Magician’s Vulcan Neck Pinch?”

Yup, sure is. And the second it starts working, his psyche’s probably gonna shatter into so many pieces, no amount of mending could put it back together.

“We can’t risk that, Q.”

“Come on, what’s the risk of getting a little sleep?” Quentin is so obviously using his ‘I’m totally innocent, please educate me’ voice. He’s even blinking those big, maple syrup eyes of his. Affecting his most comforting, irresistible smile, the bastard. “Really, I mean it. What’s the harm?”

The harm is excruciating. And Eliot can read between the lines. All this is just his way of rephrasing what he said before. He’s still determined to know exactly why Eliot hasn’t been sleeping.

“Last night,” Quentin encourages, “we talked about this, remember? You have to sleep eventually. And _I_ want you to rest. If there are any, like, consequences to getting that for you, we’ll deal with them. Easy as that.”

Eliot squeezes his free hand into a fist, his nails biting into his palm. He almost wishes he was dealing with Grumpy Asshole Q again, not this Svengali flirt. “Even if that means–”

“Even if that means.” Q lifts their joined hands. Kisses it again, on the back of Eliot’s this time. Closing his eyes while he does, savoring the action itself.

How can he still be so optimistic? So calm. He must be starving, and sore, and anxious. That determination hasn’t left his eyes since they got up, but it’s probably about to burn away any second. It’s just a matter of time.

Maybe Eliot’s not a dog. Maybe he needs to start thinking of himself as a porcupine. The closer he gets to someone, the more they get stabbed with his spikes. How can he say what he wants, without saying it? How can he avoid all the hurt, and not be a selfish, poisonous jackass in the process?

Or maybe this isn’t really Q. Maybe he’s just a memory, an ideal version that never fails to make Eliot feel better. Can he do that? Want Q badly enough to make delusions real?

Ooooh boy, the whisky’s really kicking in now. All this makes total sense, the more he turns it over. The more the depressant depresses him. While his mind’s twisting and turning in on itself, Quentin takes advantage, and draws him close. Eliot doesn’t fight as he leans him over, pressing him to his chest. He clings to his forearm. His heartbeat drowns out Eliot’s, at long last.

( _I can hear it. When we lay down in the grass, Brian Not-Brian crossing his arms, holding himself against the chill. The_ thump _-_ thump _slowing, his mind giving up on being terrified and alert, when I don’t do anything to him after I lay my head on his stomach and just stay there. His heart has a nice rhythm. Ora’s was always slow, after the first hundred years, no matter what I did. I like how Not-Brian’s changes all the time much better._ )

The Monster slams against the door.

**_STOP, ELIOT._ **

Oh, Mr. Monster, you might as well ask the sun to stop burning. If he could, he would. Does it really think he wants this? What exactly _is_ he supposed to do, with a brain that jumps around all the time, zip-zapping from one thought to another. Filled to bursting with a bunch of shit that isn’t his.

The human brain is really just one perpetual word association game. Doesn’t it want to _play_?

His side twinges from this odd angle. He can’t warp them back to somewhere cozy anymore. And it’s not like–

A shopping cart’s worth of pillows tumble to the floor against the opposite wall.

Eliot groans. “I swear I didn’t mean to do that.”

“We don’t have to use them,” Quentin offers diplomatically. He cups the side of his neck and rubs the length of his back. As he starts rocking their bodies, he speaks low, right against his ear. “Hey, I’ve got a nice idea. Whether you’re asleep, or awake, you don’t _want_ the door to open, right?”

“What gave it away,” Eliot deadpans.

Quentin nuzzles his face into Eliot’s hair, just above his little ponytail. “Then it _won’t_ open. For as long as you don’t want it to, it won’t open.”

He’s such a fucking dad.

Oh. That’s how it works, huh? Just like that? As if all this was just …that goddamn apple-pie-cupcakes-and-rainbows easy? As if he was just like little (…), scared of the Northern Marsh Turtle under her bed, so Grandpa Q makes some turtle-repellent spray, and it works ‘cause she _wants_ it to.

Jesus. All this… _weight_ put on the fucking _power_ of wanting. As though wants and desires and cravings aren’t fickle things. Malleable. Forgettable.

As though the stronger ones aren’t something you fight and fight and _fight_ against. Doing all you can, to make sure you forget them. Stuffing your face with candy and cornbread as temporary substitutes. Lying to yourself about how little the thought matters. Shoving the thought away, denying it, hating it for always coming back stronger than ever, making you imagine, making you hope, and hurting every time. Until you do something so destructive, to cut yourself off from it so cleanly, ruining the temptation forever. Better, that, after the desire’s hurt you for so long, you can’t _stand_ the wanting, since it hurts too much otherwise. Eliot was raised on this. Never trusting his own mind, once he had the smallest understanding of what having a mind meant. A wrong thought was terrifying. A wrong thought was dangerous. Life-threatening. It led to mockery, self-doubt, self-loathing, bruises, betrayals, scrapes, fractures, minor drownings, tears, tears, and guaranteed lost love, every time, sooner or later, without fail.

Or.

( _And that’s the funny thing. About “or.”_ )

The stronger desires and wants… can be… something you… fight and fight and fight… _for_.

How else would he have saved up enough money to escape. To eventually feed himself, house himself. And then clothe and cultivate himself. To write an application. To graduate. To earn Margo’s love, to pass his own Trials, to become the literal embodiment of fucking around and finding out. To live through a summer of beautiful nothing. To offer a lifeline to a cute floppy haired first year, fighting his own dangerous thoughts by clinging to magic with everything he has.

Honestly, if he boiled everything down, and oversimplified things way too much, Quentin Coldwater wouldn’t be here, if Eliot hadn’t wanted him here.

And… all that that implies.

( _His fingertips burning, the biggest magic he’s ever channeled smarting as the through-line and the Charon Spiral starts to sputter and die, disconnecting, and his mind is already busy, imagining the aftermath of this one failing, like all the others. If he has to go through another FUCKING attempt after this one, only to watch it fail too, he will break EVERYTHING. Everything in sight. In this room, in this building, in this reality._

_Wait…_

_He can feel something else, something he’s been ignoring. That prickle in his brain, that needs and wants, and it feels like it can make things happen. And he knows what he-I want[s]. **Him** , back. And he-I remember[s] what he-I is-am here for: touching Quentin, hearing him explain things in a way that made sense, watching his fuzzy eyebrows rise and draw together when he asked a curious question, his floppy hair in the breeze, his smile, his patience, his impatience, his anger, his pouts and his hums and his screams and his soothing solutions, his protection, his touch. _

_And Eliot is crying. Because he lost him. Because it was his fault. And he wants him. He wants him back. He WANTS HIM BACK. **WANTS. HIM. BACK**._)

Eliot’s eyes slip closed.

Shit.

Of course.

How could he have been so self-absorbed. As if Eliot Waugh, itty-bitty telekinetic, who’d never finished magic school, and got thrown out of Magic Land, and then overthrown and then possessed, could bring someone he loves back to life all on his own.

“You’re putting… way too much faith in me,” Eliot warns, his heart in his throat, voice clipped. “People can want anything, if… if Big Brother tries hard enough. Isn’t that what you said?”

Quentin releases him, gently leaning him upright again. He thumbs at Eliot’s earlobe. “Orwell wasn’t the be-all-end-all for how people’s minds work. Neither was Huxley, or Freud, or Jung, or…”

Eliot forces himself to play along. To say something he would say. As if he was actually alright. As if Q was actually making him feel better. “Those MBTI guys.”

“Or those MBTI guys,” Quentin encourages. “Or Fuzzbeat quizzes. Or horoscopes.”

He attempts a scowl. “Hey now, that’s just being disrespectful.”

“I’m so sorry, please forgive me,” Quentin says, each syllable dripping with derision, as he runs his fingers through Eliot’s curls.

And goddamnit if that isn’t somehow, impossibly, the best feeling in the world right now. Relief, hypnotic, irresistible, seeping right into his head. Happy Place Quentin never did this.

That’s something, he supposes. Sorry, Maker’s Mark, you’ve lost points in the true-false section.

When he can’t help but flutter his eyes closed, he can hear the huff of Quentin’s smile. He commits to it, takes the hair tie out, snapping it around his own wrist. He cards through strand after strand. Soothing, from one side of Eliot’s head to another, swirling the pads of his fingers in circles. Figure-eights. Vectors and angles. Lifting a mellow fistful away, so it can flutter back in place, in short cascades. All courtesy of the effort, the care, the dedication, that he put in last night. Beautiful minutes pass, of just this. The incandescent sensation. A handful lifted. A handful back in place. Carding, carding, carding.

Eventually, he slows, smoothing his hair back down. Plucking the sides and gathering them up, he revives Eliot’s ponytail, and kisses the base of his neck. The tiny hairs there catch on his top lip. If Eliot weren’t seconds from falling asleep, he might panic. It’s dangerous, being so _close_ , to not caring about being awake anymore. This is so good. So wonderful. So forgiving.

But Q stills, just as he lifts his mouth away, and Eliot stops just short of passing out.

“Who painted our door blue?” Quentin asks.

“What door?” Eliot mumbles.

“Our door. I…”

He feels him bite his lip. Then press on. “I… did the base coat for the flower boxes. And you… made the awnings. But who looked at the inside of the door, and just thought, ‘blue.’ Nothing else. Just blue. Primary color. Sneak peak of the sky, before you push it open and see the real thing.”

Huh. Well…

He…

He _can_ see the square paintbrush, in Quentin’s hand. Arielle had only allowed him that. The detail work – the leaves and the petals and the vines – that was her job. Eliot had found some perfectly matching fabric in the village. Took up a hammer, for the first time in a decade. But the door… hadn’t been a part of that project. It was later. So… when did they…

( _…_ )

(…)

(…)

Is it… really…

**_You don’t remember._ **

Yeah. Awesome. Another blank spot.

“Sounds like that’s your answer right there,” he offers weakly.

As he leans back, Quentin has the decency not to look too disappointed. Mostly just sad. Resigned. To not knowing.

Um, shit, okay, hurry: what’s something he can remember? He’s been Delirium’s butt-boy almost constantly, there’s bound to be a good one. Something safe. Something heartwarming, or funny. Something–

( _The torch falls, knocked over when Quentin all but tackles him to the bed. He’s got Eliot’s cock half in his mouth before they smell something burning. Hair. Oh shit that’shishairwhatthefuck–_ )

God, no, um…

His terrible, reeking attempt at hair dye, so his greys would stop showing? Teddy’s first steps? His embarrassing teenage poetry? His first hangover? His wedding?

( _Oh, he “can’t ignore it?” It’ll “maybe” help Julia? Like Eliot isn’t two seconds from “maybe” sweeping the seating chart off the table, grabbing Q, and literally flying away from all this? Like – as he chokes all that back, and swallows how much he wants to_ beg _him to stay, compressing it all into “Can’t you?” because Q never chooses him – he needs to stop nursing this_ atom-sized _fantasy that Quentin Coldwater will stand up and shout “I object” in the middle of the ceremony, brokered peace with Idri be damned.)_

Wow, great. Greeeeeat. Hi, Intrusive Thoughts, let’s go back to repressing you with a vengeance, shall we?

( _“If you miss my wedding, I’ll kill you._ ”)

Stooooop.

( _“Stiff upper lip, eh? Positively British of you.” “Someone’s gotta keep it together.” “Is that what you think you’re doing?”)_

No no no no. That’s not better, that’s worse. Atrociously worse.

( _“His best friend had died tragically.”_ )

Jane FUCKING Chatwin.

No, God, _stop it_.

 ** _See how you like it_**.

He’s…

He’s… slipping. Things are… floating back up to the surface…

( _The mirror doesn’t lie. The white of his eye is nothing but red. Burst blood vessel. Demonic. His whole cheek is puffy, black and blue, and Mom’s whispering in his ear. He has to tell Mrs. Hobson that Hummer just got spooked by a snake and kicked him. So he can’t be in the play anymore._ )

( _The wine-soaked god’s face freezes in satisfying shock-pain as I crush through the skin and meat to find… me. Some… fraction of me. Stone but living. And as I scoop the fraction out, it greets me with light, luminescent, beneath the silver moon and the dripping dark fluids running down my wrist.)_

(“ _Were you blacked out when we met?”)_

**_SEE HOW YOU LIKE IT._ **

“Gaaaaah,” Eliot gasps, clutching the side of his head. “Um. I do know. Know. That. You managed not to burn dinner on my 38th birthday. Never managed it after that. But that one time, you got it right.”

Quentin’s mouth opens, surprised and delighted, before he scoffs. “It was the weirdest recipe.”

“And it was good.”

( _A strange kind of Fillorian gourd, not unlike spaghetti squash, that Eliot fell in love with instantly. It only ripened three times a year, but, season it with a baker’s dozen spices, then pair it with non-talking yellowtail from The Swept Coast? It tasted like…)_ Like nothing he’d ever be able to make again.

And hey, look at that. He’s actually admitting to another little thing from his not-past not-life out loud. That’s what they call progress, isn’t it? And all it took, after that sweet moment in the shower, was… all this.

He moves to stand, allowing Q to help. They’re right outside the large entrance to what would be the solarium, if they were topside. It’s the end of the line. They’ll need to turn around after they check it. Descend back to the Armory, to scrounge for more Quaker bars, or hope that Eliot can want something enough to summon it. And then they’ll argue, before begrudgingly scarfing it down anyway.

Yep, there’s definitely no reason to expect glass panes and a breathtaking view. So when he sees glimmering starlight, out of the corner of his eye, he can’t help but gasp, taking Q’s arm and stepping down into the room.

They aren’t stars, not really. More gemstones, his mind helpfully, offputtingly supplies. But it’s so much nicer to think of them as balls of gas, burning far far away, filling an endless sky to the brim. Each flickering speck, an absolute marvel. Just as innumerable, just as incredible. Even more colorful. Reds and blues and greens.

Peter Pan’s Flight, eat your heart out.

“Oh my god,” Quentin breathes by his shoulder. “Great Seahorse, and Little Seahorse. Rupert’s Spire, White Stag, Ember’s Ego…”

“Where?”

He points it out.

“That’s Centaur’s Hind,” Eliot chides softly, not taking his eyes off it.

“Only in the south,” Quentin says, equally absently, still gazing at the ceiling.

( _“It doesn’t matter. You can name one. Make up your own,” she encourages. We sit before the fire. Stew in my bowl. I slurp so I don’t have to speak. I’m still wrapping my head around… “constellation.” How can there be pictures up there? Just by connecting the stars with invisible lines? And I don’t know all of them like she does. It’s not fair how she knows so much. I pout. Ask her why I should. She tells me it’s like… a permanent library. Different stories, forever stuck in the sky. “Know their name, and you know their story,” she says. “So make one up. Tell a story. Preserve it up there.” But I don’t have a name. I don’t have a story. What’s there to preserve?)_

**_NO! Leave! LEAVE, Eliot. Never come back here!_ **

And why should he listen now? When he’s spurred on by the awe in Quentin’s voice. When there’s a bona fide carpet on the sunken floor. Plush, sea-green, welcoming his sore feet, with a fire pit at its center…. And some cupboards. They’re fixed to the adjacent wall, almost like a kitchenette. He lights them a blaze in the pit, and they use that light to open them, discovering a few bowls, utensils, cups, trays with handles. A cauldron, a pan.

He starts looking around for _(their garden – the table, the chairs, the couch, the trees –_ ) out of habit, before he can stop himself. Wondering if the tiles have all been stacked correctly, out of the way, so they won’t trip on them in the dark.

He knows he couldn’t possibly have created all this with his powers. Every minute detail and feature is out of his scope. But it’s too near a thing. Too uncanny a coincidence.

The stars. The firelight. The circumstances. The company.

( _Maybe Ora missed the mosaic too._ )

He takes so long dragging himself out of that mindset, it’s like… he just… blinks, and Quentin is abruptly settling him down by the fire, the pillows from earlier at their backs, a bowl of hot rice and beans in his hands.

Why isn’t he taking Eliot’s cane away and leaning it against the table, like he always does?

Oh. Right.

No beard, shorn hair, wrong clothes.

Eliot’s unable to ask where the food came from. He’s too busy shoveling it into his mouth. Q brings him seconds soon after, and he goes through those too. The crackling flames mesmerize, the pillows receive and accept, and the stars embody their stories. If this young Quentin says anything to him, he can’t concentrate enough to comprehend it, much less reply.

(“ _Can’t believe it’s been that long,” Q grumbles over his bowl. His silly Gandalf beard gets stained by the broth in his lap. The food sloshes some more as he squirms by Eliot’s side on the couch, fluffing up the pillow for lumbar support. “I swear you’re making that up.”)_

( _“Give me a name!” I shout, excited. She smiles. Too wide. And laughs. “You’re my love,” she teases, ruffling my hair. “What else could better describe you than that?”_ )

**_You’ll PAY, Eliot._ **

He blinks again. Q’s taking their dishes away to wash, appearing and disappearing into the darkness. Eliot – trying and failing to watch him, to sort out which him is him – properly loses the battle to keep his eyes open.

The world tilts. Gravity misfires. He falls, sprawling across the carpet, head saved by a cushion.

Another. Long. Blink.

Q.

Has come back.

He’s nestling himself against his side. Tucking Eliot’s head into his chest. Little spoon.

“You think you’re… so smooth,” Eliot slurs.

“You wanna talk or you wanna sleep?”

“Neither.”

“God, you’re so cute like this,” Quentin mutters, like it’s unfair. He strokes through Eliot’s hair once more. The most powerful spell he knows. The easiest to cast. “If you sleep, you gotta promise to talk with me, after. Just a little. Just enough to help. For both our sakes.”

Eliot is powerless to make that promise. He thought that was obvious by now. He grips Quentin’s rumpled, soft, flannel shirt. Talk about unfair, Q asking him this, when he’s practically insane.

“Please, El,” Quentin whispers. “Just enough to help.”

He…

He…

Takes in some air. Tries to open his eyes. Gets ready to speak.

But he sinks down… down… down… into the warm, cozy, fuzzy dark. Q’s scent fills his nose. Overtakes his head. He’s high on it.

The fire snaps.

Dies.

Out.

(…)

(“ _Only downside is,” he says, setting the pan down, dishing out the decadent scallops, “it burns off all the alcohol.”_

_“Looks amazing,” Quentin murmurs._

_But he’s not singing its praises. Eliot’s heart is already hammering, but that kicks it into overdrive. Wine. Wine’ll help. He pours them each a glass, and turns around, ready to lay on the irresistible charm, and lay it on thick._

_Except. Shit. Quentin’s hands are stuffed in his pockets, his eyes downcast. The candles’ glow caresses the flush on his neck, and that dent in his cheek, where he’s biting the inside, hard. He sighs heavily, shifting from one foot to the other. “Yeah, uh, you. You don’t have to kill yourself for me,” he says, surly and sheepish._

_Okay… Clearly he needs to… to double down on the seduction. While he sets their drinks down, he purposefully leans in close, looking at Quentin through his eyelashes, dropping his voice low and sultry when he replies, “It was no trouble.”_

_Quentin’s hand snakes out, grasping his in a fierce hold. He blinks up at Eliot, his eyes watery and darting all over his face. “I’m… I’m already deeply impressed, you know?” he insists. As Eliot opens his mouth – to dismiss that, or to entice him some more, he’s not sure – Quentin barrels on, taking a step away, looking around. At the fire in the hearth, the genuine silverware, the candlesticks, the spotless white lace tablecloth, the other two courses Eliot’s got waiting by the staircase. “And, I mean, I feel like I should be doing stuff like this for you, ‘cause you love it and deserve it, but… I don’t know how.”_

_Eliot smiles, fondness flooding through his heart. He could kiss him, right now. Not the greedy, devouring, insatiable kind, from all their other nights, but a tender, sweet, appreciative press of lips. That, though, is_ supposed _to come much later. He needs to get this night back on track. Asap._

_He shakes his head. “Don’t be silly–”_

_“I guess I’m just waiting for the part in all this…” Q catches his eye, his arms shaking. “When I start to bore you.”_

_What? No. No no no, why is he– That’s not what Eliot wants him to be thinking about at all._

_“You don’t bore me,” he says immediately._

_Just yesterday, Q’d tried to explain exactly how the differences between the_ Lord of the Rings _movies and their books all were “infinitely forgivable,” compared to “whatever the fuck happened with that_ Hobbit _garbage.” And Eliot hadn’t been able to tear his eyes away. The adorable nerd almost cut himself off three times, self-conscious and apologetic. Eliot had to reassure him, every time: no, he doesn’t need to shut up, please do go on. Genuinely, without a trace of sarcasm, or impatience, or pacification. And that’s to say nothing of those times Eliot finds himself… staring at… the way Quentin scarfs down his oatmeal from a mug. The way he props books on his chest while he reads. His beautiful perfect ‘o’ of a mouth when he comes on Eliot’s dick. How he throws his hands in the air when he wins a game, and smiles._

_“I don’t think you could ever bore me.” Eliot has to look down too, barely hiding all that behind a smile of his own._

_Q’s mouth quivers. “I don’t know about music, and wine, and, like, any country not named Fillory–”_

_Eliot frowns. “I thought it was a planet.”_

_“It’s both,” Q immediately corrects, then bites his lip, looking like he’s two seconds from kicking himself. “It’s also fictional. And sometimes… all I wanna do is escape there. ‘Cause, ‘cause sometimes, being here can feel… way too hard. I keep wanting to, to run away, no matter whether I’m ‘alone here’ or not, so I run my mouth off about it, ‘cause it helps with those ‘why go on’ thoughts I still get, even when I’m at a, fucking, real-life magic school, with y- you, and Jules and Margo and all our friends. And you, you have no reason to, to put up with me, when I get like that. So. Just. Uh. Sorry.”_

_Oh shit._

_This has a whiff of The Trials about it. Highest internal governing circumstance. Trust Q, once he’s admitted to it once, to start oversharing with his friend-with-benefits-who-secretly-has-a-massive-heart-eyes-crush-on-him-but-won’t-admit-it-even-to-himself. And, judging from that look in his eyes, he already regrets sharing. He’s definitely expecting Eliot to steer things into safer territory._

_God. This reeeeaallly wasn’t how their night was supposed to go._

_But he can’t resist that face. He’s got no defense, honestly. Ugh, why can’t he stop baring pieces of his soul to this cute, high-strung disaster boy?_

_It’s because he knows way too much about escaping, isn’t it?_

_“Come here,” he says. He leads him by the hand, over to the loveseat under the window. And he keeps a hold of that hand, when they sink into the cushions. Knowing that, if he doesn’t, he’ll go running out the door, or up the stairs, or crash through the fucking window if he’s feeling dramatic enough._

_He can’t even force himself to face him, tilting his body away, glowering at the TADA sign. The bulbs are all gonna pop if he stares at them any harder._

_“Where do you think I come from?” he asks. Making sure his tone is curious, patient. Betraying nothing._

_Quentin snorts nervously, trying to keep his mouth from pouting, like he already knows he’s going to get the question wrong. “I don’t know. Someplace with money?”_

_High school drama kicks in. Defense mechanism number one. “Well, um, we did have money,” he says, raising an eyebrow, chuckling loftily. “Until Grandmama gambled it all away, and now all we have are titles.” He shoots Q a look, ready to encourage him with a laugh. Problem is, there’s not a single trace of his well-known ‘that’s total horseshit’ face. He’s just… grimacing, like he’s genuinely sorry for such melodramatic misfortunes._

_“That was a joke,” Eliot concedes._

_The air goes stale and tense, and they both look away, engulfed in discomfort._

_There’s still every chance for Eliot to back out. But from somewhere, deep deep in his heart, where his hope stays secret and safe and sheltered, he finds the courage to share._

_“I was… born in Indiana… on a farm.”_

_He controls every word as it comes out. Barely able to say the fucking name of the state normally, he’s so out of practice speaking it. His stomach rebels, the memories making him nauseous._

_“My parents are f-farmers.”_

_“Indiana?” Quentin’s entire face nearly folds in on itself. “I thought you–”_

_“Of course you did.” Eliot can’t stand to look at him. To see Quentin try to cope with this unravelling, elaborate lie is impossible. He takes a breath. Lets it out slowly. Strips his armor away, piece by piece. “Becoming me was the greatest creative project of my life.” He wavers, still ignoring that weird face Q’s making. “So, FYI, no one else here knows except for Margo, and that’s only because she was my secrets partner in the Trials. Everyone else, I… kinda let them go on thinking I grew up summering with Kennedys, etcetera.”_

_He hangs his head. Breathing in short bursts. Heartbreak incoming. Ready for the scoff of “that’s not so bad, you had me worried it was something worse,” or the sickening, stereotypical, tacky pity of “I’m so sorry, God, that must’ve been awful.”_

_What he gets instead is a soft, “Thank you.”_

_“For what?” he says, his voice dead._

_“Just… you.”_

_Fuck. There’s water in Eliot’s eyes, and he licks his lips and he can’t even begin to describe what his brain and his chest are doing right now. If there’s a name for it, he doesn’t know it. “Um…. Well….” Fuck it, he has to look at Q for this. Has to see what he’ll do. Eliot’s gone so far out on this goddamn limb, it’s going to break if he takes one more step._

_Yet step he does._

_“Here I am,” he says, and meets Quentin’s gaze._

_There’s a smile. A proud one. An honored one. It comes with a nod. “Yeah.” Quentin scoots forward, rising, wanting. He is moments from swooping in. About to deliver that sweet, honeyed, treasured, cherished kiss. One that certainly won’t be their first, but will truly feel like it is. He’s going to say, “Here you are,” like it’s the most definitive fact, like he’s finally seeing all of Eliot for the first time, and cherishing the view, and proving that he wants more. And then he’ll croon “hi,” and Eliot will say “hey,” and they’ll nearly forget about dinner as they wind up making out like it’s what they need to keep breathing._

_But then Quentin says, “Here_ I _am.” Just like last time._

_And Eliot pulls away, in confusion, just like last time. So he gets a front row seat, to watching his boyfriend’s warm, chocolate eyes fade to a searing, sapphire magic-blue._

_“You got me, Eliot,” Quentin says. His voice takes on that unearthly, sonorous echo, the kind The Beast favored when he entered a room. “Here I am.”_

_Eliot scrambles off the couch, a scream on his lips. He can’t tear his eyes away, as Quentin rises to follow, his hands limp at his sides. Staring, unblinking. Accusing. Blaming._

_He knows how to kill him. He knows what to use. He’s done it before. All it takes is raising his left arm. Crossing his fingers like a promise, to adhere the magic to the target’s chin. Next, draw it across, horizontal, quick, to snap his neck. He knows how. He knows. He knows this._

_But he won’t. He can’t. He could never._

_Run! He has to run!_

_“You got me, Eliot. Here I am.”_

_Eliot twists around, lunging for the front door._

_The wood’s different. Lighter. No polish. Different grain. A cross-brace. A wood nob, not a brass one. Light shining through the planks._

_He’s… not supposed to open that one._

_Back door. Back door!_

_He sprints, tossing one of the chairs behind him along the way._

_“You brought me here.”_

_The wrong door appears again, blocking the way out to the patio._

_No! He’s not supposed to open that one!_

_Can he hide in Margo’s room? It’s just around the corner and down the passage. He can make it, if he’s smart. He goes the long way around the table. Just a slight push, a flick of his wrist, and it flips, the candlesticks toppling, the glasses shattering. It crashes into Quentin as he follows. It breaks in half, on impact. Not a hair out of place. The wine bleeds into a puddle on the carpet._

_“I’m here ‘cause of you.”_

_Fuck. Shit! Fuck! The door’s blocking that way too!_

**You want out, Eliot?** _he hears inside his head._

_Is… is someone here to help him?_

_“Yes! Please!” he screams._

_“I’m here,” Quentin taunts. “‘Cause of you.”_

_He can’t run. He can’t hide. Everything’s saying he’s supposed to kill him. That’s how the script is written. How the memory always plays out._

_He’s… he’s going to, isn’t he? He is going to kill him._

_Quentin’s coming closer, about to attack at any moment. He’s playing with him. He could wipe Eliot off the face of the earth any second._

_Q roars. “I’m here! Because of you!”_

_No! He won’t! He won’t do it! He can’t kill him again!_

**The door’s right there** , _the voice hums, soft and encouraging._

“Where?” he calls.

**Right behind you, silly. It’s going to get you out of here, I promise.**

_Just… just this once. This one time. He’ll do it next time. He’ll be strong all the other times after this. But, just this one time, he’ll give in. And Quentin will live. He’ll live! He’ll finally live!_

_Eliot pivots, his hand going right for the doorknob. How could he forget? This door leads to safety. It leads to home! His wrist turns. The hinges squeal in protest. Wrathful light blazes out. He swings the door wide. Slams his eyes shut against the relentless glare._

**You can leave now.**

_Quentin kisses his neck. “I’m here because of you,” he whispers.)_

Eliot screams, rocketing out of Quentin’s arms. He spends all his air, choking at the end of it, then choking more on the inhale. His eyes fill with sunspots that only grow bigger, brighter, _brighter, BRIGHTER_.

He’s… he’s blind. He can’t see. He crawls away across the carpet, shoving off a pair of fluttering, panicked hands.

The door. Where’s the door? Where’s the _fucking door?!_ He swings his arms out in arcs, like he might run into it, crash into the frame, if he just aims wide enough.

He sobs, spit flying onto the backs of his hands. His entire soul denies, pleads, prays.

He hears something _slam_ closed. Too big for a cupboard. Too flat for a drawer.

Hunger. HUNGER. _HUNGER._

The light vanishes. His heart nearly gives out as he freezes in place. Like there’s an IV bag of caffeine, pumping straight into his bloodstream, but he’s too paralyzed to rip it out.

“Eliot!” Quentin cries.

His eyes flare open in the dark. Blind all over again, but for the stars over his head.

The firepit bursts to life on his left. He sees toes. Lanky ones, curling around the fibers of the carpet. With pedicured nails, pumiced calluses. Hairy ankles, lithe shins, half covered by black capris.

“Whyyyy aren’t you…” he hears himself say. Only, his mouth didn’t move.

He turns his eyes skyward.

He’s staring up at himself.

He’s staring down at himself.

His face is shadowed by a curtain of his own hair.

“You… you were supposed… to leave,” The Monster says. Eyes wide. Distraught. His voice is sickening. The breathy moaning of a curious ghost. “Whyyy do you… still have your body? And I… don’t?”


End file.
